


Legend

by calicofold



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Domestic Violence, France - Freeform, Gen, Highlander Fanfic Season, Italy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicofold/pseuds/calicofold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old Immortal hears rumours of a legend come to life, and seeks out the truth for herself. Eventually her path takes her to an old friend and his latest student who claim to know nothing about the Immortal named Methos. Duncan MacLeod never was very good at lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Highlander Fanfic Season, 1998.

TEASER 

Italy, 1279: Casa da Rimini, near Lake Como 

They stood at the top of the staircase, almost nose to nose. He was perhaps in his twenties, not very old, nor very wise, as he shrieked at his wife, dragging up grievances between her family and his from a century back. Any minute now, he was quite certain, she was going to bring the Crusades up again, and he _would_ hit her. Just because his grandfather had been the only child, and a relation of the local bishop, and thus dispensed from going, she would drag up _her_ ancestor, who in his forties had fought at Constantinople. Now of course her distant cousin, one of the southern Orsini's, was Pope, and she _never_ let him forget it. She was almost silent though. Her hair was falling out of the net she had gathered it into, little dark wisps of it getting into her eyes in the way he had always laughed at, and she shook. 

Vittoria watched her husband, her dark eyes wide with fear. Now seventeen she had been married some four years to the man before her, and had counted herself extremely fortunate that her husband loved her, and she him. Now she wondered though. His face was twisted by fury, and she didn't know why. He had stalked in some ten minutes ago - he had been off to ride around the estates, but had instead returned, still dressed in the black and brown riding leathers, to start yelling at her. First that she was expensive and useless, a burden to him and his family, then that she was lazy, wasteful. She couldn't understand it. So she stood silently, her dress trailing behind her, blue velvet trimmed with gold thread worked into a marvel of flowers and patterns, waiting for him to explain. With every step he took forward she took another step back, the long train hampering her feet. 

"What bloody good are you?" he went on, prodding her angrily. One hand went up to rub her shoulder. "You don't behave like an Ursini even, never mind a da Rimini. You don't listen to a word I say. It's always 'Toni I want this' 'Toni I want that' 'Toni, why don't you do it this way?' _My_ way is better, you hear me? My family have always lived and worked this land. It's not your business how I deal with it. You don't even _look_ like an Ursini." He tugged cruelly on her long dark hair, changing tack abruptly. "Look at you. Brown, brown, brown. Perhaps your mother betrayed your father, and that's why they palmed you off on me. Maybe there's truth in those old stories after all. You don't look like them, you certainly don't _breed_ like them - tell me Vittoria, what bloody good are you to me?" 

Her face flushed at the insult to her parentage, and she opened her mouth in indignation. He slapped her hard across the mouth, the blow echoing in the unusual silence. The whole household had frozen in shock, waiting for the storm to be over, not daring to interrupt. She rocked back with the blow, retreating another step, and her hand stole upwards to cover the marks his fingers had left on her face. 

"I'm sorry, Toni," she whispered, tears sliding unnoticed down her face. Blood trickled slowly from her split lower lip. "I didn't mean to upset you. What did I do wrong? Tonino, please!" She held her other hand out, her whole face showing her incomprehension. 

Her bewilderment seemed to enrage the young man further. "You're making me a laughing stock! Four years, Vittoria, it's been four years and you still haven't given me a son. They whisper that it's my fault you know. That the _Ursini_ blood is strong, after all, your father had fifteen children, all your sisters have children, so where are _our_ sons? They whisper that it's _me_ that can't." He took a deep breath, "Do you know what that's _like_ Vittoria? To be sniggered about in my own stables? By my own servants?" He took a hasty step towards her, and grabbed her shoulders. 

"You are barren, damn you. Cursed and barren, you hear me, and you are bringing humiliation on both our families. I shall apply to the bishop my cousin. _He_ can speak for me to my lord Cardinal to put you aside." He shook her violently, her head jerking with each move of his hands, white knuckled on her shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs a young blond man, perhaps in his thirties, and of teutonic appearance took a couple of steps towards the fighting couple. 

"Da Rimini! For shame!" he called, frowning, one hand at the hilt of his sword. "To lay hands on a lady." 

Toni snatched his hands away from Vittoria as if she burned him, letting go so abruptly that she stumbled, and before she could grab the banister, fell. 

He reached out to catch her, but even as his hand brushed her arm, she flinched away, eyes terrified, and sealed her fate. 

"Toni!" she wailed, tumbling down the stairs like a rag doll. She fetched up on the cool tiles of the hall, silent at the other man's feet. He had tried to reach her, and now he dropped to his knees beside her, laying two fingers against her throat. His eyes closed briefly, then he carefully moved her body, straightening limbs, but there was no real point. His hand on her neck had already told him that. One hand passed over her wide brown eyes, closed them into death. 

"Vittoria! No! I'm sorry, I, I didn't mean it!" Toni da Rimini was running headlong down the stairs, headless of his own safety. He lifted her gently, the crooked angle of her neck telling them both all that needed to be said. He cradled her, bestowing desperate kisses on the cooling lips and eyes. "Georg, she can't be," he sobbed. 

But his friend shook his head, "Oh Toni. What have you done? What have you done?" 

"No," the young widower moaned, stroking the hair he had abused only moments before. "Vittoria..." 

* * *

Thud. 

Thud, thud. 

It started softly, perhaps no louder than rain. Certainly it was too soft to hear over the drone of the priest's voice, unless one had a reason to be listening for it. The Requiem mass was almost at an end, and Georg von Witt was almost dancing with anxiety. Only he seemed to hear the faint pounding emanating from the crypt below the chancel, just as only he heard the faint susurrus, warning of an Immortal's near presence. 

The monks sang slowly, antiphon, verse. Decani replied to Cantor. Another psalm. 

"Pax vobiscum" 

"Et cum spiritu tuo." 

"In nomine patri et filii et Spiritu Sancto" 

"Amen" 

{Finally.} Georg let a careful sigh out. The pounding was audible, but the friends and family were leaving, paying their respects to the dead girl and to the priest. The monks retreated back to their monastic loneliness. As each person passed him the priest inclined his head, discreetly keeping an eye on the donations for Masses for the deceased, his face nicely conveying satisfaction at the largesse, combined with a solemnity fitting to the mournful occasion. 

In the general movement von Witt slipped into a gap behind a statue. The ancient saint's image, name tablet obliterated by a thousand devotional feet, was recessed deep into a niche, but there was just enough room for him to hide, pressed close between the wall and the white plaster of the statue. The priest pushed the doors shut, cutting out the heat and the hazy sunlight. The few flies that had been trapped inside batted fussily against the glass. 

The priest muttered and waddled his way back to the monastery door in the choir. He paused by the crypt gate and sighed, pulling it to with a sketched cross. 

"Sleep well, child," the middle aged man shook his head sadly. "I daresay he'll wed again, and bury again. Bad blood there - you're safer where you are, believe me little one. Angels guard you, ave Maria." Georg tuned out as the priest began telling the rosary. 

{Leave damn you!} he thought at him. But it was another twenty minutes before the man finished pottering in the church, and finally left. 

{That poor girl. I only hope she's suffocated} He shuddered at the thought of being trapped in a cold stone tomb, dark and alone. He squeezed from his hiding place, hurried to the crypt and ran down the steps three at a time. 

* * *

It was dark and damp in the crypt, with an unpleasantly penetrating smell. Candles glowed before the tombs and the narrow ledges where older corpses rested. A profusion of lights around one plain grey tomb clearly indicated where Vittoria Ursini da Rimini had been laid to rest. 

Georg put his shoulder to the heavy stone lid and shoved, hard. It grated across the tomb and teetered, dangerously close to falling into the chest and crushing the woman who even now was sitting up, hands bleeding, weeping hysterically "let me out! Let me out!" 

"Can you climb out?" he puffed, holding the lid away from falling in only with an effort. She had been tightly wrapped in a shroud, but her struggles had unwound much of it. She scrambled out of the tomb, tugging the inadequate strips of cloth around her. He politely averted his eyes and pushed the lid back into place. He paused, leaning against the cold granite, and breathing heavily. 

"Here," he handed her a robe from under his cloak. "Put this on." 

"My head," she moaned. 

"It'll pass. Look at me." She did so and then looked away. "It's not hurting now?" She shook her head, sniffing and gulping back her tears. "Well then, get dressed child." 

"I'm _not_ a child," she said angrily, swiping at the tears on her face. 

"And by that you merely demonstrate your extreme youth," he murmured sardonically. "Dress, or I will do it for you." 

"Signor Von Witt, please. It's not proper." 

He glanced at her incredulously. {Trust a woman to pick the least important detail.} 

"Donna Vittoria. Tori. You are in a crypt. You _were_ in a tomb. Your family buried you. You were _dead_ ," he cut across her protest, "And yes, now you are alive. Please Vittoria, it is not a miracle, there is an explanation, but this is not the time or place." 

Her jaw was dropped, whether to speak or in disbelief he didn't know, or for that matter, care. "We must get you out of here, and find you somewhere to stay." 

"I can go back to my family, they will take care of me," she said hopefully. 

"No." Her face fell. "It is not _safe_. For you or for them. Listen to me. What would you do to a corpse that walked?" 

"Kill it," she whispered palely. 

"So you'll understand that your modesty is the last thing on my mind." He looked her up and down, and a small unpleasant smile lit his face, "Yes. _Definitely_ the last thing." 

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, obediently pulling on the robes he had handed her. 

"Because I'm like you, and I have a responsibility. Come." He held out a hand. "It won't be _all_ bad, I promise." 

* * *

The same place, December 1997 

Ms Ursini?" The dark haired man hovered nervously at the door, hand raised to knock again. 

" _What_?" Vittoria Ursini, Immortal and assassin, snapped irritably, not even bothering to turn her eyes from the screen before her. 

"I have some more data on your private project? That person you wanted us to find." He held a brown folder out to her, and she bounced up out of her leather chair to take it with a smile. 

"Thank you, Jack," she said genuinely, leafing hastily through it. She paused and flipped back a couple of pages to read something in more detail as a frown gathered on her face. 

He waited to one side, there watching her surreptitiously. He wondered, not for the first time just how she had managed to acquire such poise and power and yet seem so young and innocent. Despite the chic clothing, the expensive jewellery, the stylish hair cut, she still only looked to be in her teens in some lights. 'Good skin', she always said. 

{She's beautiful,} he sighed, averting his eyes to stare at the picture of some ancestress who could have been her sister they were so alike. She glanced at him and her frown deepened. 

"Well, Jack?" 

"I was wondering what you wanted us to do next. It looks like this one has come to a dead end," he said. 

"Literally," she replied with a twist of her lips, tapping her long nails on the folder. She lapsed into silence and he took the chance to go on. 

"Mr Theoskalmios wishes to discuss the arrangements with you; we have a new proposal from the Taiwanese group again, not much different to the last one, but you may want to deal with it yourself." 

"They don't respond well to refusal do they?" she murmured distractedly. "According to this he's dead." She tapped the papers again. 

Jack wrenched his mind back to the Methos question. "Yes." 

"Are you _sure_ it was him?" 

"He was going by that name. It's all in the file." He waited a beat. "Do you want us to pursue it? I assumed it was closed with his death." 

" _How_ did he die?" 

"Decapitation." He'd read the file before giving it to her, and knew how displeased she would be at this outcome. 

"You're sure?" 

"Quite sure." The photos had been quite clear. Unnecessarily so. 

She handed the file back. "I want everything you have on the other two mentioned in this." 

"One of them's dead too, same method. The other has an apartment in Seacouver." 

"Richard Ryan." 

"That's the one. We believe he faked his death in Paris some years ago, but he still goes there from time to time. As far as we know his permanent home's in the States though." 

Vittoria smiled happily and lifted her eyebrows at her second in command. "You're in charge, Jack. I do believe I would like a trip to Seacouver." 

************************************************************* 

Part One: Paris, January 1998 

"Mac! What are you doing?" Richie Ryan squawked, as Duncan lunged for Richie's feet with the katana. Richie jumped above the blade, and glared at his friend, then regained his balance, raising his sword to en guard again. 

"Just checking your footwork," Duncan said cheerfully. It wasn't often he felt this light hearted, but somehow, everything was right with his world. This Christmas had been his happiest since Tessa. Everyone he cared about was safe and well, and even Anne had finally forgiven him, partially. She and Mary had left from Charles de Gaulle a couple of days back, with an open invitation to visit. 

He grinned and swiped at the younger man's ankles again. This time Richie took two hasty steps backwards, which on the narrow deck of the barge was one step too many. The moment was perfect. Richie, arms flailing, mouth open; the crashing splash as he broke through the thin layer of ice on the Seine, the sunlight glittering off of the droplets thrown up in a great wave. Duncan dropped to his heels and crowed helplessly with laughter. 

"Yeah right, real funny Mac," Richie spluttered as he swam back to the barge, his hair plastered to his scalp. "I'm turning into a popsicle here, and what do you do? Laugh." He reached a hand up to Duncan to be helped up. 

"It's no' that cold," MacLeod chuckled, and leaned out to grab Richie's hand. At the last minute he wondered if that had been a good idea, even as he caught the glint in Richie's eyes. But it was too late - braced against the barge Richie yanked on Duncan's hand, and let out a guffaw as he tumbled off into the water, then surfaced swearing and sputtering. 

Richie clambered quickly up the side of the barge to lie on the deck still laughing, then reached a hand down to Duncan. Just as Duncan was about to grab hold of him he snatched it away, turning awkwardly to scramble to his feet, eyes flickering around to locate the Immortal whose presence approached. 

"Hey!" Duncan began, then stopped, sensing what Richie had already felt. He grasped the edge of the barge and started to haul himself up out of the chilly January water. 

"Hello MacLeod," a voice said brightly. "Is this some macho Scottish thing?" A dark head peered down at him, an unmistakable smirk in his voice. 

"Hello Methos." Duncan growled as he pulled himself onto the deck where he stood dripping in a growing puddle of river water. "What do you want?" 

"Oh, nothing in particular. Tell you what, I'd hate to interrupt your Epiphany bonding ritual. Let me know when you're done, and I'll let you in, " he grinned, heading for the door, one hand on his sword hilt in expectation. He wasn't disappointed. The brush of air on his neck warned him of Richie and Duncan close behind him, and he whirled, sword out. Their gleeful expressions wiped instantly into pure innocence. 

"Children," Methos sighed, " _So_ predictable. Now now boys. No dunking guests." He backed into the warmth of the barge, holding them off with his sword. 

"Ah, you're no fun at all old timer," Richie said disgustedly, trying to edge round to one side of Methos. "C'm on, live a little." 

"I think that's my objection right there. I rather prefer staying alive and warm than dying of hypothermia or from whatever gunk is in the Seine this week," he replied to Richie, his eyes momentarily off of MacLeod as he spoke to the younger Immortal. 

It was enough. 

* * *

It was perhaps an hour before they were all dry again. Richie and Methos had borrowed some of Duncan's clothes, and they hung baggily on both men, Richie had had to turn up the legs of the borrowed jeans to be able to walk without tripping up, and Methos was constantly rolling the sweater sleeves up as they slid down over his hands. 

"So, what _did_ you want," Richie asked Methos, as he sipped carefully from one of the steaming mugs of hot chocolate Duncan had made for them. 

"Apart from a chance to teach you some respect for your elders and betters, you mean," Methos stretched out his long legs and examined his bare feet. Richie nodded. "None of your business, kid." 

Richie snorted, "And we were getting on so well," he mourned with gentle mockery. He drank the last of his cocoa and got to his feet. "Hey, Mac, if we're not finishing up with the..." he flapped his hand with a strange whip-whip sound that Mac was used to as Richie's description of their sword play, "then I'd better move it. I'm supposed to be meeting Al at eleven, as usual and I'd kind of like to be in clothes that fit, instead of looking like this when I get there." He smiled, "She's not too good at the forgiveness for being late bit yet, but I'm working on it." 

"Just as well," Duncan teased him. "Does she know you're calling her Al?" 

"She hasn't complained yet," Richie grinned widely. "Of course, she hasn't _caught_ me yet..." 

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that fight," Methos murmured, thinking of Altea's red-headed temper. 

"Bite it grandpa," Richie put the mug down, picked up his jacket and sword, and opened the door. "Seeya." 

"Take care, Rich," Duncan said quietly, but the door had already closed. 

Methos glanced at his friend, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence. It seemed that Mac still worried about the kid. Methos sighed. {One way and another, he's a lot of trouble.} He twisted the mug backwards and forwards in his hands and thought back to times MacLeod had thought Richie dead or in danger. The times that Duncan had dived into unnecessary danger, usually to the total annoyance of Ryan, who would rather fight his own battles, without his erstwhile teacher getting in his way. The wreck that the man had become after he had been tricked into believing he had killed Richie. Back then, for a while, it seemed that they might have to kill Richie anyway, to destroy the demon possessing him, and MacLeod had been paralysed by his guilt, almost to the point that the demon won. 

{It doesn't help that they're as reckless as each other. Neck deep in the Game, both of them, and each constantly half expecting the other to turn on him. Frankly I'm amazed the kid has stuck around this long without going for MacLeod.} He shrugged mentally and dropped his gaze from MacLeod to the sluggish dregs of his drink. {They'll have to work it out for themselves.} 

"Penny for 'em." Duncan interrupted his musings, rather unnerved by the thoughtful regard that had been bearing down on him. Methos focused on him again, and for a moment Duncan felt rather like a bug on a plate, then Methos shook his head. 

"Oh, believe me. Not worth so much as a sou." 

"You never did answer Richie you know. What _did_ you want?" 

"You mean apart from staying dry?" 

"Okay, apart from staying dry." 

"It wasn't much, really. I'd've been long gone if you two children had managed to grow up a little." 

Duncan stayed silent, waiting for him to stop being clever. 

"My date's dropped out on me, and I have two tickets to the Scarlatti Charity function tomorrow night. I thought you might be interested." 

"That's it? All that build up for a pair of tickets?" 

"If you not interested..." 

"No, I'll take them if you really don't want them. What time tonight?" 

"Good, here you go." Methos pushed a pair of rather bedraggled gold edged tickets across the coffee table. "I'm sure you'll find someone willing to use the other one. It starts seven for seven thirty." 

"Aren't you going to go at all?" Duncan said in surprise, "These are like gold dust. You must have really pulled some strings to get hold of them." 

Methos shrugged, "I only got the tickets to impress my date. Turns out she'd've been more impressed by front row tickets to the BeeGees." He shook his head. "The _Beegees_. A lucky escape I reckon." 

"Who are the Beegees?" 

Methos looked at him quizzically, then said, "No, you probably wouldn't know at that, would you? Trust me, it's a part of popular culture you should be grateful you missed. Rather like Mozart." And they were off again, wrangling good-naturedly about the merits of Van Halen versus Verdi. 

* * *

Duncan propped his shoulders against a pillar and glowered at the room at large. While the concert had been wonderful, and the food delicious, the Highlander was in a foul mood as he watched the glitterati twitter as they mingled. Amanda, the only person he could find in time for the evening, had leapt at the opportunity. He'd been quite gratified until she started telling him the guest list - and their more valuable movable properties. Nonetheless, he had been enjoying the music, Swenson, conducting in place of the late Solti, had produced a masterpiece of style and execution, until it was spoilt for him by Amanda's ogling of a stray European prince three rows down from them. 

To give her her due, she had at least waited until the charity auction was over before cornering the man at the buffet table. Now she was picking oh-so-delicately at a plate of food, sitting between his serene highness and some stray lordling or other whose family should have been exterminated some centuries ago. _She_ was having a wonderful time. Peals of mirth exploded from her table, and Duncan's scowl deepened. 

He was just debating how soon he could leave, and whether Amanda would even notice, when he felt an Immortal close by. His eyes cast quickly around the room, finally lighting on a small dark-haired woman, whose eyes met his. She smiled at him, and he walked quickly towards her. 

"Vittoria! How good to see you," he said sincerely. 

She laughed up at him, "Oh, I'm glad to see it wasn't all that bad after all. You looked like you were about to kill someone, lowering at everyone like that." 

"I've been abandoned," he said tragically, eliciting another laugh. "You're looking wonderful." She was too, in a deep red and gold dress that brought out the golden flecks in her eyes and made her short deep brown hair look even darker. 

"Not a day older, you might say," she replied whimsically. "I'm going by Tori da Rimini these days, and of course, you're still charging about in the brilliant disguise of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Or... go on, surprise me, Mac, tell me you've finally done it and changed your name." He shook his head. "I might have known," she said, shaking her head reproachfully at him, but smiling withal. The dance band came to the end, and paused, then when the scattered applause stopped they struck up again with a waltz. She smiled and held out a hand, "Shall we?" 

"How could I refuse a lady?" He stepped closer, placed one arm about her waist, and they began to move to the music. 

"So, what are you up to these days?" 

"Oh, pretty much what I ever was," she said sweetly. 

"Same old Tori, never a straight answer to a straight question." 

"Same old MacLeod, so naive he actually thinks he's going to get one." she retaliated. "No, really Duncan, things haven't changed much for me." 

"Conspiracy still paying well I see," he said, twirling them briskly back the way they had come, and noting the rich jewels at her ears, throat and wrists. 

"So-so," she replied deprecatingly. "No, I'm doing something much more exciting now. Do you remember my legend? Well, I think I've found it." She smiled dazzlingly up at him, then dropped her eyes to conceal her glee as she felt him tense. 

"You remember, don't you Duncan? All those stories about the oldest Immortal?" She stopped dancing and looked seriously up at him, then began to lead him from the dance floor. "They were _true_ Mac. _All_ of them." 

Her hand gripped his wrist as they stepped through the heavy curtains and out of the ballroom, and a fanatical look transformed her face. "Imagine it Mac - Methos! The stories, the history. The _power_. Don't you just _drool_ at the thought?" She caught herself up hastily, then went on, "Oh, the things he'd know, the places, the people - and can you imagine what a five thousand year old lover would be like," she added with a broad wink. Her lips curved into an excited smile, "And he's _here_ Duncan! In this very city!" 

They stopped by the ornamental pools that glittered and rippled as the water from the fountains arced down in silver cascades. He looked at her seriously, trying to decide on her expression. The evening was illuminated only by the stars and the candles floating in the lakes, and he could not decipher her real thoughts. "Vittoria, he's a myth, someone some ancient immortal made up to give ourselves hope. There's no such person. You know that better than anyone - how long have you been looking?" 

"Since the day my teacher told me, seven hundred years ago, as a three week old Immortal... 

* * *

1279 AD, Avignon, France 

Georg was at his wits end. He'd gotten the girl to his house outside Avignon, on the French side of the border, well away from anyone who might recognise her as the dead Ursini girl. He'd tried everything. Ignoring her, talking to her. Feeding her, starving her. If he tried to comfort her with a touch, she screamed rape. If he left her alone she wept and moaned hysterically, calling on the saints, on her family, even her husband - the man who had caused her to die and enter what was clearly, to her, a living nightmare. His attempts to explain her situation had calmed her for a while, and he thought she had understood that to survive she must learn the sword. But when he told her to put on boy's clothes for her lessons she protested that they were _immodest_ , and refused. When he forcibly dressed her in them and dragged her to the salle, she crumpled into a little heap, wailing piteously for her mother. 

Georg swore, long and vividly. He glared down at the pathetic puddle of an Immortal at his feet, and wondered whether to save them both the trouble, and take her head right now. 

"Very well, Vittoria. Go back to your room." She sniffled, and he winced, thinking of the marks she would be leaving on his beautifully polished wooden floor. "Get out!" She scrambled to her feet, and fled. 

When he could no longer hear her, he slumped against the wall, head in hands. "I've had students before, but she is _impossible_." He groaned as a horrible thought struck, "Oh _gods_ , she'll want to go to Mass, and she'll confess to the priest, I _know_ she will, and we'll both be run out of Avignon for witchcraft and heresy. Oh _gods_." 

He wandered out of the French doors, and around the building until he reached the stable. 

"Mon seigneur, what is it?" Jean-Marie frowned at his lord. The stables were his domain, and he had grown up knowing the strange lord of the manor. Von Witt had never explained his agelessness, and Jean-Marie in turn never mentioned the odd blue tattoo on his wrist. Instead they mutually ignored the obvious, Jean-Marie's family lived extremely well, far better than most servants, and in return, they told their fellows of the _other_ family home, where the sons had always grown up, and how the _young_ master looked so wonderfully like the _old_ master. With an average life span of only forty years, Georg's servants were rarely around long enough to become a problem. 

Jean-Marie had heard from his wife of the silly female Lord Georg had brought home this time - far different to the usual run of girl that accompanied his master. Now he was concerned to see the expression of frustrated irritation. 

"The young lady?" he asked cautiously. 

"Jean-Marie," Georg sighed, and decided to ask for help. It couldn't make things any worse. "The Lady Vittoria is a gently bred girl, of Italian family. And I have brought her here, to teach her to fight and survive in a quite different kind of life. She is not - adjusting - well." 

Jean-Marie nodded, noting mentally to check that there was a Watcher assigned to the child. {Not that it'll be for long at this rate,} he thought pragmatically. He was surprised to hear his thoughts echoed a moment later. 

"I can't fight her battles for her, and if she won't learn, she'll fall to the first one to come along. What can I _do_ Jean? I mean well by her, but..." 

"There are limits to your lordship's patience." Jean-Marie suggested. When Georg nodded he said, "Let me think a little, see if we can't come up with something." 

"You'd better be quick. She's acting like a baby, and I'm going to treat her like one and give her a good hiding if she doesn't pull herself together. And that wouldn't help in the slightest. Did I say that her husband beat her to death?" Georg rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. 

Jean-Marie shrugged, "It happens, lord. But you've given me a thought. It was you saying how young she is. How about telling her stories?" 

"What good will that do?" he said sceptically. 

"Hear me out, lord. Tell her all the pretty, romantic stories - knights in armour, adventures, excitement - tell her about the things she could do, the places she could go, if only she learns to behave like a proper Immortal." 

"That's not a bad idea." Georg thought about it for a moment. "I don't think we'll start with the battles though." They grinned at each other, then Georg jumped to his feet and patted Jean-Marie on the back. "Thanks youngling. I always could rely on you." 

"Sir." Jean-Marie nodded politely, and went back into the stables as Georg walked towards the house. 

Later that evening, after persuading Vittoria to eat with him, they were sat before the fire in the solar. "The last time I was in this room, Vittoria, I had another young lady with me. She was like you. Immortal." 

Vittoria looked up, interested. "What was her name?" 

"Rebecca. You'd like her, she is a very great lady, but godly and kind." He paused as if a sudden thought struck him. "You know, I think she was in that very chair when she told me about Methos." 

"What's that?" 

"He, my dear child," he said as impressively as he could, "is the very _history_ of Immortals. Imagine a man who lived for five thousand years," he said, lowering his voice dramatically. 

"Why, he must have seen the flood, he'd be older than Methuselah." she said sceptically, but leaned forward a little. 

He smiled at her, "Perhaps he _was_ Methuselah? There _are_ stories of him you know." He paused strategically again. "But I don't suppose you'd want to hear more. You'd just have to listen to me talking about Immortals, and the things they do, the places they've been, the people they've seen." Georg waited for her to bite. It didn't take long. 

"Oh please?" she said quickly, then blushed. "If you don't mind that is?" 

"Not at all. Well, this is the story my teacher was told as true. 

"Long long ago, before the gods left the world, and when civilisation was young, there was a boy. He was born an Akkadian, who became Greeks and Turks many centuries later, but his family abandoned him, and he was brought up by the Temple women. When he was twenty five..." Georg glanced at his pupil, taking in her rapt expression, all wide eyes and wonder, and smiled. She would listen now, and perhaps she would learn a little. 

* * *

Duncan nodded reminiscently. "And then, one day you met a stubborn Scot, in a small village in the Tyrol, and you told me those stories." 

"It _was_ very boring being snowed into that inn with you," she murmured provocatively. 

He merely chuckled. "That doesn't make it real, Vittoria. You've been looking for him for more than seven hundred years without success. You're so obsessed you want it to be real. Accept it, he's a myth." 

"You're right, Duncan, a _myth_ isn't real. But this is. I have proof. The man called himself Methos in public." 

"Anyone could do that," Duncan said, wondering what insanity had possessed his friend. 

"No, it's real all right. A legend maybe, with that grain of ancient truth hidden in the stories, but no myth. He's finally stepped out of the shadows - perhaps it's because it's the time of the Gathering," her hands waved excitedly as she spoke. "He's _alive_!" Her lips curved with excitement. "Imagine, the myth no more, walking out of the stories and the lies, into the light of day!" She took a couple of hasty steps away from Duncan, and ran a hand carelessly through her hair, unable to curb her delight, then turned to face him again. "He's _really_ alive! It's all _true_! Oh Duncan, isn't it just _amazing_?" 

"That's... remarkable Vittoria," he said slowly. "Tell me, do you know where he actually is?" 

She shook her head, a slight frown marring the smooth forehead. "But I do have a lead." She smiled brightly, and Duncan eyed her with increasing unease. 

"What... what are you going to do now?" 

"Oh, I don't know. I'm almost too excited to think. Look at my hands - they're shaking," she laughed breathlessly up at him, and he tried to smile back. "Find my lead, find _him_ , then. Oh I don't know. I think... I think I'd talk to him. I want to know what he knows." 

"You've changed," Duncan observed. "Last I heard you wanted his head." 

"Well, it would be _some_ Quickening wouldn't it?" she agreed cheerfully. "Duncan, no, seriously, I've changed. I've grown up since then. What a waste it would be, to kill the oldest of us." 

He looked at her sceptically, and she met his gaze steadily. 

"And aren't I allowed to change, Duncan?" He didn't see the calculating glance she darted at him through her eyelashes. She sat gracefully by the side of one of the fountains, and dipped her hand in, dragging it through the water to watch the ripples rock the floating candles. 

"You made me see what a waste it could be, killing people." She smiled gently at MacLeod, who looked at her warily, remembering the last time he had seen her, when he had thrown her out of his cell of the French Resistance, because she had not learned that lesson. 

"I did change, really. Give me another chance? Please?" she asked plaintively, eyes wide and innocent. Despite himself he crumbled at the anxious look in her eyes, and against his better judgement wrapped an arm about her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, Tori. I just didn't expect... I'm sorry." He dropped a kiss on her soft dark hair, and so missed the satisfied smirk that crossed her face. 

She turned her face up towards him. "You're forgiven," she said softly. "Am I?" 

In answer he brushed another kiss on her forehead. She sighed, and turned into his body, her arms wrapping around his waist, his closing in a warm embrace. 

"I missed you Duncan MacLeod." She pulled back to look at him with a grin. "Just a bit, of course." 

"Of course," he bent his head to kiss her. After a moment he broke the kiss, "I missed you too. Just a little bit." 

She leaned back further and glanced comprehensively down his body. "Mmm, I can tell," she said blandly. 

He chuckled and pulled her close again. "Shall we leave?" 

"Why not?" 

Minutes later they had retrieved her wrap and found a taxi. 

They barely made it through the door of the barge before Vittoria swiftly disposed of Duncan's jacket and shirt. His hands slipped under the neckline of her dress, sliding it from her shoulders. He paused a moment to admire her warm perfection, then lowered his lips to caress her face again. One of her hands lifted to caress his face, while the other worked quickly at his shirt buttons. 

* * *

Tori snuggled the comforter closer around her shoulders, savouring the warmth and the company. Her eyes still closed she wondered whether to try to doze off again, or just wake MacLeod. {Either way would be good,} she grinned sleepily. She rolled her shoulders, stretching cat-like with satisfaction. One arm brushed across Mac's chest, and his arm tightened reflexively around her. 

{Alternatively...} she sighed in resignation, and propped herself up onto both elbows to watch him as he drifted deeper into sleep. Once his breathing was once more deep and even she carefully turned over to slip out of the bed. When his arm around her stomach tried to pull her back she murmured "Bathroom. I'll be right back," and he let go. 

Quietly gathering her underwear from where it was scattered on the floor from the previous evening, she moved into the living area. 

{Why can't you have rooms like normal people,} she thought irritably as she froze in response to him sprawling into the space she had left in the bed. She found a shirt, a pair of jeans, and a belt. She rolled up the legs, but they were still ridiculously baggy on her, and she was reduced to drilling a hole in the leather belt with a corkscrew filched from the kitchen to keep the jeans up. 

She perched by the phone and quickly and silently emptied her bag, until a small gun appeared. She tucked it into the waistband of the trousers, concealed inside the shirt. Everything else went back into the bag, except for a small notepad. Still moving nearly soundlessly she began to flip through MacLeod's address book which was lying by the phone. Nothing under 'M', but she hadn't really expected that. 'R'... {Ah, there it was,} she gave a small sound of satisfaction. 

Richie: Seac 1-407-555-7854  
Paris 33.1.42.89.24.48 

She scribbled the numbers down. {It's more than enough to find the little brat. How _dare_ he take my legend away from me?} she thought indignantly. {Still, once I have _his_ head, I'll have Methos' too.} She shivered in anticipation, and bit her lip. Behind her she could hear the first signs of movement. 

The address book closed and put back in place, she dived for the kitchen. Kettle, coffee, croissants... the man must have some somewhere... ah yes. 

"Vittoria?" came a mumble from the bed. 

By the time Mac made it out of the bed, some twenty minutes later, robe wrapped carelessly about him, she had breakfast well underway. 

"Did anyone ever tell you," Mac yawned, sipping at the hot coffee, "That you're an absolute angel, Tori da Rimini?" 

"One or two. Why do you think it took me so long to work back round to you?" she said outrageously, batting her eyelashes at him. 

Mac choked on the coffee. "God, you haven't changed, or at least, only for the better." 

"Why, thank you milord," she bobbed a curtsey, then squawked in dismay, "The croissants!" 

* * *

"Mac? Ya there?" There was a thud above them and the barge rocked slightly. "I dunno, I get here, it's not even six thirty, and where is he? Still in bed I expect," he grumbled loudly, "Hey! Mac!" He shoved the door open with his hip, one hand occupied by a bag of pastries, the other carrying two coffees. He closed the door and turned. 

Duncan's face managed to look both threatening and embarrassed, the woman beside him on the other hand was coming towards him with perfect sangfroid, right hand out-stretched. 

"Good morning. We have a friend in common it seems," she smiled sunnily at him. Duncan coughed and covered his mouth to hide the grin. "My name is Vittoria Maria Ursini da Rimini von Witt. And you are?" 

Richie moved to take her hand, remembered the bag of pastries, looked wildly around to find something to do with them, and dropped them on the floor. He wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it to her. 

"Ryan, Richie - Richard Ryan," he said, clearing his throat. 

"Can I take that?" She gestured towards the dripping cups of coffee. 

"Er, yeah, sure. Um, it's a bad time, yes? Sorry Mac. Ah, I'll just go, um. Yeah." He was backing towards the door. "Later Mac." 

"No, Richie? Please stay. We have eaten, but I'm sure Mac could cope with a little more. And I really should be going. I was planning. I meant to..." For the first time she seemed flustered, and a slow flush crept into her cheeks. "I really should get home. My people will be worrying about me." 

"Your people?" Duncan asked curiously. 

"Oh, I'm staying with some business associates. Naturally they know nothing about the _real_ me, but that doesn't mean they won't care if I go missing." 

She scooped up her possessions, and pushed past Richie to the door. 

"Tori, wait!" Duncan hurried after her. "At least tell me where you're staying." 

"At the Forouchon's," she flashed him a quick smile. "You'll be able to find it I'm sure. Nice meeting you Richie, see you around." 

"Yeah. Sure," Richie's eyes followed her as she hurried off the barge. Silently they stepped onto the deck of the boat, staring after the small figure scurrying into the pre-dawn dark. 

"In a hurry isn't she?" Richie observed neutrally. 

"Mmm," Duncan nodded abstractedly, still looking after her. 

"Maybe she doesn't like strangers. Understandable." 

"Mmm," Duncan was jolted out of his thoughts by Richie's hand on his arm, blue eyes frowning with concern. "That's probably it. So. What do you want to do?" 

"Mac? We've been doing this for years on and off. You okay?" 

"Yes." Duncan replied shortly. 

"Okay! I know when to keep my nose out. So, you up for some exercise or not?" The two men began warming up. "Run or fight?" Richie asked casually. 

Duncan looked at him sharply, but the question had been asked in all innocence. {Unfortunate turn of phrase there though,} he thought sadly, reflecting on how often those were the only choices offered to Immortals. "Oh, run I guess. Or maybe..." 

Richie was starting to look really worried now, " _Is_ anything the matter? Can I help?" 

"Hmm? Oh, no. No, I don't think so. Look Rich, I'm not really..." 

"In the mood. Look, I'm sorry I interrupted you two. Y'know, you coulda just told me to push off." Richie said tiredly. 

"Rich..." 

"You go do whatever it is you have to," Richie shrugged as though it didn't matter, as though Mac had ever let anything put off his work outs. He scooped up his sword, turned on his heel, walking off the barge. 

{Damn. Damn, damn, damn.} Duncan swore to himself as Richie stumped away along the quai. {But, he's not in trouble right now, and Methos might be,} he told himself, aware he was letting the problem slide yet again. 

* * *

Half an hour later he was at Methos' apartment, pounding on the door. 

"Adam? Adam! It's me. Duncan." 

"As if anyone else would bother trying to get me up at this ungodly hour," Methos growled, sword in one hand while the other rubbed blearily at his eyes. "Whaddya want?" 

"Do you know Vittoria Ursini?" Mac jumped straight in with the question he'd been turning over since the previous night. 

"Good morning Methos. Good morning Duncan." he parodied, "And how are you today? Oh, fine, fine. So, what brings you out so bright and early. Oh this and that. Does _no one_ bother with the amenities any more? Those little details that let a person wake up? Or the phone. Have you heard about the phone, MacLeod?" 

Methos walked yawning back to his bed, tumbled onto it and disappeared under the covers. His voice emerged, muffled by the pillow he pulled over his head. "It's a wonderful invention. You could have phoned ahead. And then I wouldn't have had to get up to tell you to get lost." 

"I did. You wouldn't pick up." 

"Didn't that tell you something?" Methos rolled over, head re-emerging, tousled and sweaty from the covers. "Why do I bother?" he sighed, propping himself up on the battered pillows. "Why do you think that I know every Immortal you run into? I assume she _is_ Immortal?" 

"Yes, she is. She's about so high," he indicated a point mid-chest, "dark hair, brown eyes, looks around seventeen, really around seven hundred." 

"Why? I mean, I may have been in the Watchers once, but that doesn't mean I know every tuppenny ha'penny Immortal that comes along." He yawned widely. " _Now_ can I go back to sleep?" 

"Don't give me that, Methos. She's obsessed with you, everyone knows that. Of course you know her." 

"Everybody? Look, so maybe I've heard of her, but I don't _know_ her. Happy, MacLeod? Why?" he added, almost sure he would rather not know. 

"She's an old friend. I ran into her last night and..." Mac coloured slightly. 

"Translation: Mac got some," Methos remarked to the ceiling. "Go on." 

MacLeod's lips tightened. He took a deep breath and went on through gritted teeth. "She was full of a new story about an Immortal named Methos, who had revealed himself. You. She thinks she knows who you are and where you are." 

"Oh great. First you wake me up at - " he glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet, " - seven in the morning. Then you lead some wacko straight here. I'm just overwhelmed with gratitude. Now if you'll excuse me?" 

Mac hovered by the door, unsure what to do next. "I thought I should warn you. Find out why." 

"What for? Going to fight my battles for me too?" Then the Highlander's last comment registered with him, and he looked over at him with slow anger flaring in his eyes. "What do you mean, 'find out why'?" 

Duncan ploughed on, "Why does she really want your head? Is she another of those 'thousand regrets' of yours?" 

"No, MacLeod, shocking as this may be to you not everyone in the world falls into that category," Methos retorted sharply. "Look, since you ask, yes, I do know who she is - I make a point of avoiding the headhunters, particularly the Methos-hunters, and she's both. Call me peculiar, but I have this odd dislike of being a target." 

"Are you _sure_ you didn't. . ." he dropped his gaze and the question in the face of Methos' flat stare. 

"Didn't _what_ Mac? Haven't we had this conversation before? No, I know what you want me to say, but you're no father confessor - and _I'm no sinner_. Not on this. Hard as it may be for you to believe, I didn't do anything to her." He was dragging on his clothes hastily. "Do you have _any_ idea how long I have spent not being Methos? Hiding from everyone - Immortals, mortals, Watchers. Millennia. If others want the 'glory' of being the eldest, then let them have it. Me, I'm going somewhere she can't find me." He hooked his jacket over his shoulder, stuffing his feet into his black leather shoes. He turned back to look at the silent Scot and sighed. Controlling his impatience visibly, he went on. "If you set yourself up on a pedestal, there's always someone wanting to knock you down, find out if you can be pushed off that pedestal fate has placed you on."

Nobody's perfect Mac," he added more kindly, "Everyone has a fatal flaw that attracts the hunters: in me it's who I am. My very existence is a challenge, and there are some Immortals, quite a few actually, who would really like to make me a target. She's a headhunter MacLeod, a headhunter after a very particular head - mine. 

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch." 

"Where to?" Duncan asked bemusedly. 

Methos looked at him incredulously. "You think I'm going to _tell_ you? Have you heard one word I've been saying? Goodbye Mac, nice knowing you, I'll see you in a century or two." 

He walked briskly for the door. Duncan took three quick steps after him and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him to an urgent halt. 

"What if she comes after you?" 

"Who are you asking for? Her or me?" He paused a moment watching Mac's eyes for his answer, then his face twisted. He nodded, a cynical half-smile on his lips. "As I thought. Go away and grow up, Duncan." 

He shook Duncan's hand off of his arm, and walked away, leaving Mac staring after him, his expression confused and dismayed. By the time Duncan roused himself to follow, Methos had gone out of range of sight or sense. 

* * *

Duncan marched back to the barge, furious, though not quite certain _who_ he was furious with. "Stubborn, temperamental idiot. All I do is try to help the man. Well, dammed if I try to help you again Adam Bloody Methos bloody Pierson." 

As he got closer to home his temper began to cool, as he reviewed the conversation. "Thrice damn the man. Bloody sais. Takes everything I say and twists it till I'm in the wrong," he muttered, barely admitting to himself that maybe he'd been less than honest with himself, both now, and in his motives for going to Methos. He kicked at a stray burger carton, the wind picked it up and blew it back almost to its feet and he growled at it. "Even the goddamn _boxes_ won't do what I want them to," he muttered irrationally, and felt better. "Well, I've told him. That's all I really wanted. And it wasn't _really_ interfering." He walked some more. "Damn the man. I didn't mean to . . . Oh _hell_." He stalked over to a phone box, rummaging in his pockets. Inside the booth he pushed a couple of francs into the payphone and dialled. It rang and rang. {Maybe he really did go, right there and then,} he thought uncomfortably. {Maybe I won't be able to find him.} 

"MacLeod, if that's you, I really am going to come for your head." 

"Don't hang up! You're right, it's none of my business if you and Vittoria have a past, and I'm sorry I even thought it. She always was a headhunter before. I just... I wanted for her to have changed." 

There was a long pause. 

"Well, I can't blame you I suppose. Have you thought that she's probably following that _other_ Methos' trail? He was much more indiscreet about his identity than I ever am. She probably wants to pump you about him." 

"Why me?" 

"Do you have a brain in there, or is it all tartan fluff between your ears? Because you were the last to see him. Look, you're endangering me, she's probably got a tag on you. I'll be seeing you." 

There was a click and the dial tone. 

Mac replaced the handset. He took a few paces and slowly said, "But I wasn't the last to see him alive, Richie was. _Richie_!" 

* * *

Part two 

Altea checked her watch again. It was gone eleven and he still hadn't appeared. 

"Bastard," she muttered. "Where the hell are you?" Suddenly her face lifted from its fierce contemplation of the sugar lumps and she glanced quickly around. {There he is,} she thought with a faint relaxation of the tension in her back and shoulders. She didn't consciously worry about Richie, or her other friends in the Game, but the memory of Darius' death was never far, the way that she had not been there, and he had died. It added a certain edge to waiting. 

She smiled and waved at Richie, who waved back and wove his way between the white plastic chairs and tables. He leaned down for a quick kiss, then pulled up a chair, turning it around to rest his arms on the back. 

"Sorry I'm late, babe," Richie apologised hastily, trying to forestall her wrath. "It's not that late is it?" 

"Twenty past. You _promised_ Richie." She sighed. "Maybe I should just give up on you." 

He reached over the table and grabbed her hand. "Don't you dare Altea Werner. Don't you dare." He rubbed a gentle thumb along the back of her hand and smiled at her, and her breath caught at the sheer affection in his eyes, which even now could take her by surprise. "I couldn't do without you Allie, so don't even think it." 

She turned her hand in his, squeezed, and smiled back at him. "I was only teasing, teknon. _But_..." 

"Next time! I promise!" he said hastily, then caught her sceptical look and laughed. "Well, I'll try to remember." 

"Where were you anyway?" she asked curiously. 

"Oh, nowhere. I was thinking." 

"Thinking. Ha. Well that would explain why it took you so long to get here. Walking _and_ thinking are still a bit beyond you aren't they, kalos?" 

He grinned ruefully. "Guess I walked into that one. No, I met one of Mac's old friends this morning. She was over at his barge. I went over for our workout, but.." He paused, thinking. "Mac was in a really weird mood again. I..." he trailed off, frowning. 

Altea sighed. She pulled her chair round to sit next to him, and leaned against him comfortingly. {MacLeod always does this to him, and he is so open and uncomplicated that he is always surprised by it.} They sat in silence. {He's so easily hurt,} she found herself thinking. {For all that he calls him tough guy. Grow up Richie-love.} she thought sadly, but all she said was "Perhaps I'll forgive you then. Just this once." She was pleased to see him smile briefly. 

He stood abruptly and said, "Come on, let's go find _food_." 

"What? You can't possibly be hungry, it's barely eleven!" 

"Oh, so now it's 'barely' eleven is it," he said in mock indignation. Well by the time we've found a place to eat that they haven't thrown you out of yet it should be just about lunch time," he went on slyly, and was rewarded with a swat across his backside. 

"Ow!" he squawked, rubbing at the seat of his jeans. He pulled her to her feet and slipped his arm around her waist. 

"I'm not kissing it better," she warned hastily, recognising the glint in his eye. But her hand tucked itself into his jeans back pocket as they moved off. 

"Later?" he said meaningfully, one eyebrow raised. 

She glanced at him, then away again, and grinned. "Maybe," she said breezily. 

"Tease," he growled without rancour. 

She just grinned even more widely at him, showing every one of her perfect white teeth. 

"Am I supposed to like that or be terrified?" he said, laughing softly. 

"Why choose?" she replied, and kissed him. 

" _Altea_." And some moments later, "If this is terror, I _like_ it..." 

* * *

Some two hundred yards away a student, blue jeans, fisherman's sweater, unlaced trainers, leaned against a wall. Drawing pad in one hand, pencil in the other, Walkman plugged into his ears, he seemed oblivious of the world going by. If anyone even noticed him his hands, busily sketching, were enough to deflect interest - artists were ten a sou in Paris these days. But the only thing he was hearing on the Walkman was the distant conversation of the two Immortals. As they stood to go he casually folded his sketch pad and ambled after them, vanishing in the crowds. 

When, some time later, they disappeared into an old red brick house on the outskirts of Paris, he found a perch on a large metal bin, and hauled out his drawings once again. He glanced around him and shrugged. {At least here there's something to sketch.}

The house was at one end of a long, mostly residential street. Towards the further end, small shops spilled out onto the pavement and Parisians busily flitted in and out, chatting, shopping. Some die hard tourists, wrapped in furred anoraks against the January air, were sipping at steaming drinks, the lone occupants of the pavement cafe. Inside the clink of china and cutlery filled the dimly lit restaurant, the locals gazing out at the tourists with expressions of amused superiority on their thin patrician faces. Somewhere a clock chimed once, and the crowds began to thin again. 

{Lunch almost over,} the young man thought, just as his own stomach rumbled noisily. He lowered the pad for a moment and looked over at the building speculatively. {Lunch time Jamie-boy.} His face brightened and he unhooked the mobile phone from where it hung on his belt, and dialled. 

"Hi Marie, 's Jamie. .....Nah, Jamie Driscoll....Oh very funny. Look, I'm halfway out of town, Rue St Jeanne. It's just out in zone 2, north side...That's the one. Well, the guy's gone in and he's got some woman with him....Oh gee, thanks Marie, make me feel good why don't you. No seriously, they went in an hour ago, and I'm _freezing_ and I haven't even had lunch yet....Yeah sure. Er...details..." He flipped back through the sketchpad, which had scribbled remarks all round the margins of the pictures. 

"Okaaay. I think it's his place. She's got an appointment at three - anyway, she said she couldn't stay long, had to go see someone or other, I've got the name if you're... Okay. No, didn't sound like he'd be going....'Altea' Couldn't get a surname, but it's a start....Well, I guess that's her than....If you knew all this already why am I hanging around here freezing my derriere off?.... Thankyou! You are an angel, a genuine ministering angel. Who will it be? Oh. Seeya later then. Au 'voir." 

He only had to wait another fifteen minutes before someone came. He had only ever seen her from a distance as she hurried along, surrounded by anxious people waiting to run the moment she demanded it. Now she was walking briskly towards _him_ , heels clicking sharply on the paving stones, bobbed hair swinging in time with her steps, orange suit lighting a beacon through the cloudy Parisian street. She was perhaps three or four yards away, about to walk past him, when her eyes slid incuriously over to the student artist perched a couple of feet above her. Her face lit up and she stopped dead, then scurried forwards, crying "Jacques!", tugging at his ankle till he slid to the ground. Once there she placed a hand on each shoulder and dusted a kiss onto each cheek. 

"Remember, I'm your cousin Vittoria, now say hello!" she whispered rapidly. 

He mumbled something, and hugged her quickly, backing the moment his hands were free again. 

"I haven't seen you for so long, Jacques, come let me buy you lunch. Your hands are freezing - mon vieux, you shall come with me, and we will hear all the things you have been doing with yourself lately." 

She slipped one small hand through his arm and led him into the nearby restaurant. They spoke softly as they ate, a close observer would have seen the flickering glances both bestowed on the room and on the house a couple of hundred yards away. Around ten past two, as they were waiting for dessert, a young red headed woman left the building. 

Vittoria tapped Jamie on the shoulder. "That's Altea isn't it? I haven't seen her in years." 

Confused, Jamie nodded, and said, "But I thought you didn't..." He shut himself up at her look of impatience. {Oh, of course.} He hurriedly tried to redeem his blunder. 

"I don't know if she lives there. She could be going back to her place. I'm sure I could find out where... " He subsided as he caught her eyes glaring at him. 

"Excuse me a moment." She turned away from him and took a mobile phone from her small clutch bag. He stared into the restaurant trying not to hear, then realised she was speaking in a language he didn't understand anyway. 

A few moments of staccato conversation later she folded the phone up, then smiled sweetly at him, gracefully changing the subject. For the rest of the meal they discussed the recent holidays. When the meal was over she thanked her 'cousin' for a wonderful time, and bade him go and enjoy himself. A couple of two hundred franc notes in his pocket went some way towards convincing him he hadn't completely screwed up, and he left the restaurant happy. 

Once he was safely gone she headed over to look over the house. The faint ache in the back of her skull told her that her target was still there. A neighbour stared in an unfriendly fashion but made no effort to stop her as she opened the mailbox, flipping through the piles of junk mail. 

'Mr R. Redstone' 

{Well that settles it, you're the one I'm looking for. That name sticks out a mile, my little American. You are most definitely MacLeod's protégé.} It was not a compliment. She smiled at the envelope, lightly tapping one peach painted nail on it. 

* * *

Richie was washing up. The hall and living room had junk on every last surface, and the kitchen still showed the remnants of Richie's efforts at cooking pasta the evening before last. He grinned as he remembered Altea's reaction as she had looked inside the ongoing disaster area that was Richie's idea of good cooking style. As always, she'd refused to take one step further, resorting to epithets in her native Scythian to enumerate the full enormity of the mess he had created. As always, he had pleaded, cajoled, and finally, promised to wash up, and even tidy the rest of it - just for her. 

{Of course,} he mused cheerfully, {It wasn't really _my_ fault we didn't actually get around to the tidying.} But Altea had put her foot down about it when she left, so Richie was washing up, in his own, inimitable style. 

Music blared from the cd player, the window was wide open, and the dishwater steamed in the chill air. Richie bobbed about cheerfully, whirling cloth, plates and cups alike with blithe abandon. By the bin a plastic bag held the remains of an earlier victim of his washing up technique, and the linoleum was liberally bespattered with suds. 

He was just considering whether to change his sopping tank and shorts or to just let them dry on him when he felt the indefinable presence of another Immortal. 

"Altea? Allie, is that you?" he called back into the living room. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword when the first knock on the door came. With a flick he turned off the music. Sword at the ready he called "It's open." 

"Richard Redstone? Richie?" He lowered the point of the sword as he recognised the voice from that morning. {Well, she's a friend of Mac's. How bad can it be?} He thought that over, and a corner of his mouth quirked ruefully, {Well, there's always the window...} 

"Vittoria. Come in." he offered cautiously. Then, an awful thought, "It's not Mac?" 

"No! No, he's fine. No, hard as it may be to believe, I came to Paris looking for you - only I didn't know this morning it was _you_." She stepped through the door, picking her way fastidiously past the clothes and magazines that littered the floor. "I could have saved us both some trouble," she added, looking him straight in the eye. 

{You want something, and I don't think I'm gonna like it, whatever it is,} Richie thought, but said, "What can I do for you?" 

"Just to talk." 

"Let me get dressed," he indicated his tatty outfit with a vague hand. 

"Certainly." Vittoria wandered around the living area while she waited for him to return, picking up photos and flipping through magazines. "Perhaps we could go for a walk, along the river," she suggested finally, eyeing the mess distastefully. 

"Sure, just give me a mo, I'll be right there," Richie called from upstairs, voice rather muffled by the turtleneck he was pulling on. A moment later he appeared arrayed in sweater, dark jeans and leather jacket. Vittoria surveyed him appreciatively and he flushed uncomfortably. 

"Shall we go?" she said. 

* * *

Methos thumped his pillow. The moment MacLeod had gotten out of range he'd stripped and dived back into the soft comfort of his bed. He'd managed a few more hours of uncomfortable sleep, but it just wasn't working. {Damn MacLeod. Damn bloody legends and a plague of curses on all story-tellers.} He spent an enjoyable five minutes imagining all the things he would do to Homer if he ever caught up with him. {Damn everything.} He gave the pillow one last thump then threw it. It landed with a satisfying crash, knocking over at least one vase. Unfortunately it also dragged one of the curtains partially open, and sunlight poured in, right across the oldest Immortal's face. {Could at least _one_ of us not get up today,} he thought irritably at it , and muttered darkly into the sheets, trying to bury his face in the mattress. 

"I hate you Highlander. I hate you hate you hate you. Guilt, conscience, responsibility, _fellow feeling_. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to ignore them? To do what _I_ wanted? And all it takes is one - wretched - Scot." The words were filled with more venom than one would have thought possible. 

"Damn. Damn, damn, _damn_." One hand swatted blindly at the bedside cabinet. Failing to find its object it patted around on the floor. 

{Where'd I put it?} 

The phone, it seemed, was one of the things the pillow had knocked over. 

Eventually he found it, and made the call he despised himself for making. 

"Joe. And a good morning to you too. Yes, I am aware that it's seven am where you are." 

"Because I wasn't allowed to sleep either, and misery loves company." 

"Of _course_ it's our large Scot." 

Methos grinned, "I said Scot, not scotch, but that's not a bad idea." Holding the phone between cheek and shoulder unscrewed the cap on the bottle of Bells sitting conveniently near the bed. 

"Neat I think," he murmured, and knocked it back. 

"Who is it now?" Joe's distant voice asked resignedly. 

"Her name's Vittoria Ursini, among others. Italian, around 5'5"..." he repeated the description MacLeod had given him. 

"Let me boot the system up. " Joe sounded a little more awake, but Methos could clearly hear the yawns over the clatter as Joe moved around, carrying the phone from the bedroom into the office. 

"Okay, I've got her." Joe's voice returned. "Yeah, she's down under several pseudonyms. Let's see, around since 1279, not much of a swordster..." 

"Swordster? You've been hanging around Richie too much," Methos commented dryly. 

"You want this info or not?" Joe said defensively. "Okay, makes a lot of money running wars and executing inconvenient people." 

"Anything on her whereabouts?" 

"In Paris, surely?" Joe said dryly. 

"Well, _yes_ , but any particular hotel, or do we just wander around Paris till we hear her coming?" 

"Oh very funny. Ummm, no, not... Oh. That's interesting." 

"What?" 

"That's really odd." 

" _What_? Tell me before I reach down the phone and pull your tonsils out." 

"According to this her Watcher's just been reassigned. It was Lara Brophy - she's one of my local people. This Immortal of yours must have been in Seacouver." Joe hummed softly as he scrolled down the Chronicle. 

"Seacouver? I don't believe in coincidences," Methos commented. 

"That wasn't a coincidence." Joe sounded fully awake now, and not a little concerned. "She broke into Richie's place last week, was in there with someone else - one of her operatives we assume - for about forty minutes, then they took the next flight to Paris. You'd better tell Duncan to warn Richie, Adam." 

There was no reply, just the distant thump as the handset hit the floor. 

"Adam? Goddam." Joe hung up and glared at the phone on his desk. He was still in his pyjamas, and felt far more like going back to bed. {Hell.} 

He dialled Richie's number, but got the answer phone. 

"Rich, it's Joe. Call me as soon as you get this." 

{MacLeod! The kid could be over at the barge.} The phone was busy and he swore. Nothing he could do for now. Nothing except worry about the kid. 

* * *

"So, what did you want to talk about," Richie asked again as they strolled along the banks of the Seine a little while later. 

"Methos," she said bluntly. 

"Uh...sorry? Meth-what?" Richie said, stalling. 

"Methos. The oldest living Immortal. Or rather, the _ex_ oldest living Immortal." She was watching the boy closely and could have sworn his shoulders relaxed suddenly. 

"Sorry, I don't think I know..." 

"Oh, of a certainty you do. You may recall. Seacouver, summer before last. An Immortal who taught peace. Another, his student. Now, they are both dead. And you, his last student. His last _living_ student that is." 

"Oh. Yes, him." Richie _was_ relieved. The fake Methos, for a moment there he'd thought... "Well, you know, that was a while back now. I've done a lot since then." 

"Oh, so taking a five thousand year Quickening was an event of no moment. Here, gone, on to the next thing, si?" Her face was flushed and she was starting to lose her grip on her English. 

"Hey, you've got it wrong. I didn't kill him! That was the other guy - Culbraith. I went to speak to er... Methos, and he was already dead when I got there. I didn't even have my sword with me when he - Culbraith attacked me." 

"How wonderful, a miracle," she said sarcastically. "Your 'other guy' lost his head with the powers of your mind alone." 

"No! Mac came, he brought me my sword. We fought: me and Culbraith. I took his head, but he'd already gotten to Methos before I even got there," he said desperately, trying to convince her. {I _could_ tell her who the real Methos is...} But that thought was cut short by her next words. 

"How convenient for you. MacLeod 'just happening' to come along. Oh, and with a spare sword too. How _dare_ you," she hissed. "How dare you lie to me and think you can get away with what is _mine_. I have hunted him for seven hundred _years_. You can't even imagine that, can you? I have been to places and done things in this search that you couldn't even begin to understand, ignorant brat that you are. And you have the audacity, the _gall_ to take the head that I worked so long and hard to find." 

"But worse than that, you don't even seem to realise the enormity of your crime." She was gesticulating wildly with one hand, the other keeping a death grip on Richie's right arm. "You just _took another head_. It wasn't even important enough to remember." She took a breath and went on with a forced calm. "I could stand it if you had worked for this prize, but you!" She looked him up and down scathingly, "You didn't work for it, you didn't spend years tracking him. You barely even knew who he was." She gripped his arm harder, "Well, my pathetic excuse for an Immortal, you don't _deserve_ to keep that Quickening." 

Richie tried to yank his arm away from her but her nails dug in painfully and he gave up the effort. He glanced around them, seeing the people walking past, slowing as they wondered whether to intervene. He thought of calling for help, but who would believe him? 

"Not here," he said desperately, torn between saving himself and keeping her away from the real Methos, hoping he could sort this out once they were out of public sight. 

An insane smile lit her face. "So. You admit it. I know a place. We shall go. Right now." 

"No!" he said urgently, but she wasn't listening to anything but the stories inside her head now. She tugged him along, and when he resisted too strongly, stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. 

"Well, we can do it this way if you'd rather." A flick of her wrist, and a thin stiletto appeared, the edges smeared with something oily. Richie began struggling in earnest, but he was much too late. With a twist of her hand the knife went through him. Seconds later he collapsed, the poison on the blade killing him, while the knife itself remained in his chest, ensuring he stayed that way. She waved off a couple of concerned passers-by, who had seen the collapse, though not the weapon, and waited for her backup team to arrive. In minutes they were all heading for a derelict factory site, one she kept for times like this. It would be perfect for what she needed. 

* * *

Part Three 

"Why am I doing this?" Methos asked an uncaring world. He was lost again. {It's all very well wanting somewhere quiet to do your writing, but this is ridiculous!} He turned and ambled back the way he had come. {There _are_ only three roads it can be off of now,} he comforted himself. The next turning was leafy, in a neat, restrained sort of way. Half way down it was the street he'd been searching for for the past half hour or so. There was a row of villagey kind of shops, and there, at the far end was the house. Soft red brick, with a unkempt front yard, grass peeping through the concrete. He trotted up the five steps to the front door and, for form's sake, rang the bell. There was no answer, not even the distant thrum of an Immortal. He slipped his hand into his pocket and glanced quickly round before bringing out the lockpick. 

{It's all very pretty, and I _suppose_ they're away from the hazards of the city and MacLeod's 'friends', but really, a nice apartment in town would be just as safe, and a lot less effort for people like me,} he groused as he picked the lock on the door and walked in. 

{God, what a mess!} There was stuff everywhere and some of the furniture had been overturned. {How can he live like this?} He smiled unkindly when he realised he was attributing all the mess to Richie. 

He wandered through the house to the far end, looking quickly in the study as he passed it. From the living room he immediately felt the blast of chilly air coming through the open window, and stepped into the kitchenette. When he leaned out over the kitchen sink he could see the back yard, not in much better condition than the front, and showing distinct signs of scorching. For a moment he thought the marks were recent and that he was too late. {No, the glass is intact and it's been opened, not jumped through or blasted out. And his shattered corpse isn't lying around out there cluttering the place. He probably didn't use it then.} 

He noticed the flashing light on the answer phone and hit play. He half smiled, listening to four messages, of varying degrees of urgency. One from Joe, two from MacLeod, and one from Altea, who sounded merely exasperated, all demanding that Richie pick up the phone right now, or, if he really wasn't there, to call them. He saved the messages, and sighed. {If I do this my cover is gone, ditto my head. If I don't then I stay alive, safe and out of sight. Either Richie winds up dead, or Vittoria winds up dead.} He shrugged. 

{They're all grown up. He's not here. I've done all I can.} "There's nothing else I can do," he finished out loud, drowning the voice that told him _exactly_ what MacLeod would think of that line of reasoning. 

"No Duncan MacLeod in Bali this time of year," he said out loud to himself with a happy smile. "The perfect holiday." 

* * *

Duncan's fist hurt. First, he'd used it to hammer on the door to Richie's place. When there had been no answer he used his key to break in. He honestly couldn't tell if there had been a fight in there. The crockery was in one piece, and so were the windows... {Perhaps he's okay somewhere else. But everything else is in such disarray... But then it always looks like this - but then, where is Richie?} He was starting to panic all over again, when it was with a feeling of considerable sheepishness that he suddenly remembered that Richie and Altea usually met at eleven, after she'd finished at the stables for the morning. It was half past now. Goodness knew where they'd've gotten to - it could be anywhere. 

{He'll be safe enough with Altea around: Vittoria would never take on two of them, she's too careful of her precious skin to try that,} he tried to comfort himself. 

Next he went back to Methos' place. By now it was nearly two, and there was no sign of him either. The place was deserted and bare - no different to usual. He had no idea what to look for that might indicate whether the ancient Immortal had just gone out or had left entirely. Somehow he couldn't see him with a suitcase. 

Duncan went back to the barge in the hope that someone - anyone, would be there waiting for him. The answer phone had no messages, and it appeared that no one had tried to call him since Richie's last call a couple of days back. 

He tried to sit still and figure out where they might be. {Only this morning they were all there. Where _are_ they? What if?} His face set. {I should let him go. This hurts too much. I've got to let go. He's five years Immortal now, and has been killing people I never thought he could take. His luck is phenomenal.} A small, unwelcome voice said, {What if today's the day it runs out? And Methos? What about him? What if you took Vittoria straight to him?} He was pacing nervously by now, between the phone and the door. {He can take care of himself - he's survived this long hasn't he?} he tried to reassure himself. He forced himself to sit down again, and wracked his brains to think where he might find any of the protagonists. He remembered Vittoria mentioning a place he could get in touch with her - who was it... 

"The Forouchon's! What's happened to my brain?" He leapt to his feet and hurried out again. 

The Forouchon's turned out to be a private residence, and Vittoria's business associates were in fact a rather pleasant elderly couple, the Comte and Comtess du Forouchon. 

They opened the door warily to him, peering over the security chain. 

"Good afternoon, my name's Duncan MacLeod, and I was looking for Ms Ursini," he said, in his best charming voice. 

"Pierre du Sainte Ville. What do you want with Donna Ursini?" the man, greying and in his early sixties, demanded shortly. 

"I'm an old friend of hers, and I..." He was interrupted. 

"Ms Ursini left clear instructions on the topic of 'old friends'. Sorry M'sieur MacLeod, I can't help you." 

The door swung to, but he got a foot wedged in it, and said hastily - "Please - it's really important that I speak to her as soon as possible." The pressure against his foot eased, and he sighed with relief. 

"Why?" 

"I think we're both looking for a friend of mine, and I have to talk to her about him. She might be in danger." {Especially when I get my hands on her,} he excused the lie mentally. 

The man considered him for a moment, then grudgingly offered "You can give us a message if you wish. We might be able to contact her if you will wait." 

"Thank you." Carefully he worked what he wanted to say into language that would not give anything away to mortals. 

"Vittoria, Would like to meet up as soon as possible to talk about your legend. May have information. Duncan" 

The old man read it, and said "I'll see what she says." He closed the door, and Duncan was left cooling his heels outside the pitted oak. 

After five minutes he was pacing up and down the driveway outside the old grey stone house. Ten yards this way, ten back to the door. The gravel kicked up and scuffed his boots, every passing moment, another one wasted. Another chance lost. Finally the door re-opened. 

"Mr MacLeod?" The man's voice was less than cordial. 

He turned quickly and hurried back to the door. 

"Yes?" 

"Ms Ursini said to tell you: 'Thank you, but I have all the information I need.'" The door was slammed in his face, and nothing he could do would get them to open it again. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" he muttered. {If they don't know, then they don't know.} He couldn't help cursing the delay, and wondering how he could get that phone number they'd used to contact Vittoria. 

{I could try breaking in I suppose.} He eyed the house. It looked sturdy and depressingly well warded. Windows locked. Doors closed. The fine wires of burglar alarms along every possible point of entry. He walked away, wondering what he could try instead of this dead end. 

{Maybe Altea... Of course. She'll know where he is.} He hurried for a phone box, rummaging through his pockets for more change. There was none left. 

The newsagent looked irritated when he paid for a chocolate bar with a two hundred franc note, but did it anyway. Now he could call her at the stables. 

The number was engaged. Duncan scowled, then thought {Maybe Richie's on the line chatting to Altea.} He felt a momentary annoyance that the two kids couldn't be bothered to let him know where they were. He wasn't to know that Altea was trying to get through to Richie. By the time she gave up phoning their house, Duncan had decided it would be quicker just to go to the stables. He locked up the barge and got into the T-bird, intending to drive there. {Should only take twenty minutes,} he thought optimistically. 

* * *

The mid afternoon traffic was horrendous. A set of diversions took him halfway out of Paris altogether, and when he tried to dodge around the traffic he suddenly found himself in a gridlock. 

"It would have been quicker to walk," he growled through gritted teeth, taking risks that had pedestrians and road users alike scattering before him, and screaming invective after him. Forty minutes later, he arrived. 

The place was deserted. The courtyard, ringed by horseboxes, had only horses, gazing soulfully at him from over half doors, and whuffling gently. He took a deep breath to call for Altea and choked - for all that he had lived with horses for the best part of four centuries it had taken him very little time to get used to breathing clean air. 

"Altea?" he called once he caught his breath. He walked towards the exercise yard, not really expecting a reply since he couldn't sense her. {She might be anywhere,} he thought morosely. {He's probably with her, with the phone off the hook in some hotel} he added rather unfairly. He was on the verge of giving up and returning to the car when he felt it, the presence of one of his kind. He leaned against the gate post and waited. It wasn't long, in fact he heard her long before he saw her. 

There was a whoop, and a pounding of hooves, and a blur of movement frighteningly close to his neck. By the time his katana was out the horse had slid to a halt and she landed square on both feet before him, labrys held casually in one hand. 

" _Now_ tell me it's not an effective weapon against Immortals!" she gasped triumphantly up at him. 

His heart was still pounding in his ears from the shock. He shook his head, carefully, in case it toppled off, but only said, "I'd still have to see it against a sword." 

Altea smiled evilly and lifted her axe against his sword invitingly, but Duncan shook his head. She took a closer look at him and became serious. 

"What is it? What's wrong?" 

"Altea, I ..." he began, but she was ahead of him. Duncan MacLeod never really bothered with her, so it had to be... 

"Richie?" she asked thinly. Her pale skin seemed to lose a few more shades, and unconsciously her hands were moving into a battle grip on the double headed labrys. 

He simply nodded, then, realising she thought he meant her lover was dead, put an arm around her and said, "No. I didn't mean that - Altea, I just can't find him, and I think... I have reason to believe that he... that a headhunter is after him." 

"Who is it?" she demanded hotly. "Your tattle-tales told you didn't they? Where is he?" 

"I don't know. Altea," he tightened his hold on her as she seemed about to rush off to Richie's rescue, killing anyone and everything that got in her way. "Altea, I know how you feel, but _nobody_ knows where he is. Not even the Watchers. It happened too fast. _If_ anything has happened at all," he added scrupulously. 

She relaxed a little and gave him that disconcertingly clear, green stare of hers. "Explain MacLeod. Why do you always give the worst possible slant on anything?" she asked rhetorically. "Just tell me what's happened." 

"Richie got in the way of a headhunter. She thinks that he took her prey..." 

"She?" Altea interrupted, comprehending. "Oh. Your 'old friend' turned out not so friendly after all. If I find out he went off to talk to her because he thought she was your friend..." she threatened. 

"She's looking for someone else, but she thinks Richie knows where he is. She may even think Richie is responsible for killing him." He trod carefully between the truth he was allowed to tell, and Methos' secret. He couldn't for the life of him remember whether she knew or not. 

She sighed. {He's just over-reacting,} she comforted herself, then stole a look at MacLeod. {No,} she accepted, taking in the real fear lurking at the back of his eyes. She took a step away from Mac, and looked at him steadily. "Why don't you ask your nosy 'friends' where he is. I'll go see if I can find him." 

"Do you want a lift into the city?" 

"No," she said, almost contemptuously. "I'll be quicker on my feet." She jerked her head at him, and led the horse she had been riding into its stall. Duncan watched, startled, as she wasted precious time carefully brushing it down. Then he turned on his heel and got back into the car. 

Just before he drove away, she called - "How will I find you?" 

He glanced back at her and said "Your place, two hours. Or leave a note on the coffee table in your living room, if you get a lead and can't wait." 

She nodded, and he drove away. 

* * *

Adam Pierson was queuing. It was one of his least favourite occupations, but he had been doing it a very long time, and so was good at it. Shuffle, pause. Shuffle, pause. In the background the tinny female voice that all airports inflict on their 'guests' floated dimly though the air, first in French, then half a dozen other European languages. Adam choked slightly at the Russian pronunciation, which rather implied there was a small fish farm on the concourse, instead of crowding. The woman at the desk of Air India smiled at him, and asked if she could help. {Why do they say that? Am I likely to be hanging around for the sheer wild thrill of it all?} 

"Yes, I'd like a ticket to Bali. First class. Immediate travel." 

"The first flight is this evening at eight thirty." she told him, the too long fingernails clicking on the keyboard. "Is that a return sir?" She smiled brightly up at him, a small Asian woman resplendent in green and red outfit that someone in her firm had clearly decided said all they wanted to say about their aircraft. {They're probably right. Loud, ugly, synthetic, and guaranteed to make you feel ill after too long in it.} 

"No." he replied absently. 

"Any luggage, Mr Pierson?" 

"No." She looked faintly surprised until he added, "Just hand luggage, thankyou," and forced a smile. 

She handed his passport and credit card back with, "Enjoy your trip." He hadn't even turned away when she began the same rigmarole with the next customer. 

The airport lounge had a bar. Methos took up immediate residence, and started working his way alphabetically through their beers, ales and lagers. He had finished the Boddingtons and was wondering whether Budweiser counted when all the thoughts he'd been avoiding started intruding again. 

{They can take care of themselves,} he told himself firmly. 

{What if she gets him to tell her who I am - where I am...} 

{That's why we're going to Bali. Think of it. Sun, sea, nubile girls. I haven't been back to my house there in - } He counted hastily on his fingers, ran out, and guessed, {Thirty years? No Scots. No silly teenagers. No crises. No beer either,} a spoilsport in the back of his mind remarked. {I'll cope.} 

{Oh yeah? If there _is_ any beer, it's warm. Remember?} 

Methos sighed. He remembered. The yeasty flavour of the beer imported from Hong Kong which then fermented in the barrels at a ridiculous rate, turning it extremely alcoholic, and a strange pinkish hue. The ultimate flavour, as he recalled, was reminiscent of the smell of a farmyard after a bad case of stomach trouble in the pigs, and a long hot summer. 

{If that woman has him will he be able to hold out?} He scowled at the empty glass, then wiped some of the pale brown froth from the inside of it and thoughtfully sucked it off his finger. He considered what he knew, from his own experience, from gossip, and from his filched copy of the Watcher cd, of Vittoria Ursini. She'd murdered her own teacher, some twenty years after he had taken her in. He'd been friends with Georg von Witt, and had seriously considered taking his student's head, but she had long since left Avignon by the time he reached there. Not long after his Watcher had told him about her obsession with Methos. He'd heard other things too, about some of the methods she used to find her information. In her book, everything had a price, and she wasn't too fussy about how that price was met - money or murder, she really didn't care. It was about then that he had disappeared again, staging his own death for the benefit of his Watcher, and heading for China instead. Over the years she had kept her hand in with the Game from time to time, and had meddled in countless wars and political intrigues, always for the highest bidder. His face turned grim, {If she does get hold of him he won't hold out forever. Or she'll just kill him to find out from his Quickening, if she can. Either way, my secret's not going to be safe while Ryan's alive. Maybe MacLeod will manage to produce the cavalry again. That's a nasty thought: MacLeod. It doesn't really matter what I do, he's going to blame me either way.} 

{It might be easier to find her myself and kill her. Shouldn't be too difficult. And I have been meaning to get rid of her for centuries.} Before he knew it his feet had walked him over to the phone booth. Three phone calls later he had all the information he was likely to need. {If I start with the factory, then the house... They always go for factories. No imagination.} 

{I'll do it. Maybe then I'll stop talking to myself.} 

{Not likely, old man.} He ignored that, and walked back out the way he had come. 

{This is definitely against my better judgement.} 

* * *

Altea's feet ached. It had been nearly two hours since she had begun searching. 

She had started at their house. She could tell that Richie had begun the cleaning she had asked, but he'd been interrupted. The clothes she had left him in were flung carelessly on the bedroom floor, and his jacket and sword were gone. She looked narrowly around the rooms, and decided that the place had probably had at least one more visitor than just whoever had interrupted Richie. The scratches on the doorframe were no indication - both of them at one time or another had needed to break in - Altea wasn't used to keys, and Richie was just careless, so every couple of weeks they'd find they were locked out. But the place looked - invaded. Like people had been tramping in and out all day with careless feet. A shoemark on a magazine was too large for Richie's feet. Marks of stiletto heels showed on the parquet by the front door. {At least one man and one woman then.} 

After the house she headed back into the city, and tried the cafe they usually met at. After that, the Louvre, various jardins, the several different quiet spots where she knew he sometimes went to sit and think. {His bike hasn't gone, nor his lap top and notebooks, so he _can't_ be far,} she thought hopefully, then wondered if she was telling herself or asking. She tramped down the Seine as far as the Ile de la Cite and Duncan's barge, where she broke in to make herself a drink. Duncan himself was nowhere in sight. 

It was only when she re-emerged she realised she was being followed. Not just by her Watcher, who she recognised as the dark dressed figure admiring the view of the Seine from Pont St Michel, but by someone else as well. This one was far nearer. {She obviously hasn't heard about me,} she thought gleefully. {She's good, I'll give her her due. She's probably been following me all day and I've only just spotted her,} she added fairly, as she slipped behind the deckhouse, and over the far side of the barge, then swung along it monkey fashion, dragging her legs silently through the water as she pulled herself along to the next barge, then the next. Once she had moved two or three hundred yards, as near as she could reckon, she grabbed the edge of the green and blue barge hiding her, launched herself upwards, paused a moment with her arms stiffly holding her out of the water, then vaulted onto its deck. 

The barge rocked, and Altea crouched low, hoping her shadow wasn't watching the right barge. After a couple of minutes she eased herself around from the shelter of the deckhouse, and peered cautiously over to the place she'd last see her. She was still there, her body facing the Duncan's barge, oblivious to her mark's disappearance. In fact it looked like she was making notes... Altea smiled coldly and casually walked off of the barge. The cars parked along the quai went some way to hiding her, and she walked close against the wall along the pavement until she was within about four or five yards of the spy. She flicked a glance around - {No one but the Watcher to see this...} she saw with relief. 

In a sudden burst of speed she was on her enemy. One arm firmly about her throat, the other pressing a knife into her ribs, enough to draw blood, but not so deep as to be more than a warning. 

"Who are you?" she demanded harshly. 

"What are you doing? Let me go! Help! Help!! Au secours! M'aidez!" Her words were choked off as the arm on her throat tightened. 

"No games! You're coming with me." Pressing a little deeper with her dagger, Altea began dragging the woman to Duncan's barge. She wound one hand into the long dark blonde hair and tugged cruelly. It was something of a battle to get her on board, but once inside with the door locked behind her Altea could relax a little. She shoved the spy down onto a chair, and held her wrists together behind her with one hand as she looped her belt around them. 

She pulled up a second chair, and sat on it, legs demurely crossed, bloody dagger gently cleaning out from under her nails. Her captive looked faintly sick. 

"Haven't been doing this long, have you?" she said conversationally. There was no reply. "Oh come on, at least make this a little interesting. Or I could make it really interesting for you." 

Still silence. 

"What's your name? And why were you following me?" If anything the spy's face grew more stony. Altea looked her captive over carefully, then swiftly patted her down. About Altea's own height. Light coloured eyes. The endemic jeans and sweater, a silk scarf. No weapons. One note pad. One cellphone. No wallet. Rather too much cash in a back pocket for honesty. 

Altea drew a deep breath, and let it out again, slowly. "You know, I used to have an aunt. Well, let's call her an aunt. I really couldn't stand her. Horse faced, and thick as two short planks. If I don't have _your_ name, I could just call you Melippe after her. It suits you," she added blandly. There was no reaction, though the face almost looked as though it wanted to spit insults back. 

"Okay, Melippe it is. On to the next question. What were you doing outside my barge?" 

She didn't bother waiting for the reply this time, but went straight on. "Perhaps you were waiting for a customer. No. You're well fed, so _that_ can't be your trade. Unless you're really good at it, in which case you wouldn't be hanging around outside. Maybe you were hoping for a handout. Nah, same applies. You don't seem too concerned about the next meal. Though if I were you, I would. Whether it's going to happen that is, not where it's coming from," she added with an untroubled laugh. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the woman shiver slightly, then hold herself still. 

{So, the thought of dying bothers you does it. Coward,} she thought contemptuously, forgetting how fearful she had once been, before she had escaped her eternal tomb. 

The Immortal stood and hefted the labrys that she had left leaning against her chair. She whetted the blade with her thumb, letting a single drop of blood trickle down it and drip onto the knee of the other woman. Eyes wide with fear she jerked away, then froze at the feel of the curved axe head lightly scraping the skin beneath her ear. The weapon moved round, she could almost feel the tiniest layer of skin parting where it passed, could see in her mind's eye the little beads of blood welling up, breaking capillaries, only millimetres away from veins and arteries... 

"Jugular, carotid..." Altea whispered, naming each blood vessel as the blade sliced over it, and her prisoner's eyes snapped up to her face, frightened to hear her own terrified thoughts on this psychopath's lips. "So vulnerable. A little nick. Just _here_ ," and the woman moaned as the pressure increased for a fraction of a second, then was lifted. "And it would all be over. Imagine that. No more worries. No more bills to pay or people to follow. Just the cold dark tomb. Or maybe they'd burn you, just bones and ashes, thrown out like so much garbage. Or leave you to some medical students for practice on. Would you like that?" The red haired Immortal's voice was low and sympathetic, her cheek close against the fair hair, whispering into her ear.

"No..." came the soft wail. Altea pulled back abruptly. 

"But I can't let you live," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You'd just go tell people my secrets. If you won't give me a reason to keep you alive, what can I do?" The head beside her face began to shake - no. 

" _Yes_. Unless you give me some reason to trust you, it'll be over the side of the barge with you. Unless I remember to weight you down you'll be found in a couple of days. Maybe less. I'm sure your employers will give you a splendid funeral. Now, hold still, this won't hurt a bit. Or at least, you won't care for very long..." She took a step back and swung the axe high over her shoulder. As she began the downward swoop her prisoner cracked. 

"Louise! My name's Louise - Louise Kerly! Please!" 

"Tchah. At least die bravely. You've gone and put me off my stroke." 

"Please. I - I don't know what you want to know, but I don't want to die! Please!" Louise said desperately to her captor. 

Altea put the labrys down with a show of reluctance. In fact she was relieved. She would not have been able to bring herself to kill the little spy, and yet she had little else to hold over her. If she had waited a fraction of a second more, Louise would have discovered that when Altea pulled the killing blow, and might never have spoken. 

"So. Talk to me." 

"What do you want to know?" 

* * *

Richie woke abruptly into searing light. Long before his eyes adjusted to the wall of light blinding him, he could sense an Immortal somewhere nearby. 

{Vittoria,} he thought painfully. He tried to move, and was surprised to find his hands tied together in front of him, arms free to move. His eyes focused on the area around him through the glaring light pouring into them. Gradually he realised it wasn't bright everywhere, that there was darkness beyond the brilliance. Finally he could see. He was sitting in a small circle of light, one of dozens which ran across the room in long lines, like checkers, neatly laid out on an all black board. 

He was sitting on a hard wooden chair. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to estimate the size of the place he was in from the sounds. Large, and by the positioning of the lights, he was probably in the centre. His eyes opened again and he looked at the knot in the loosely tied rope holding his wrists. {I could just yank my hands out of this,} he thought contemptuously, and he tried the rope. His backside felt numb, and so did his legs. {Made up for the wrists by tying my legs too tight?} he wondered. He tried standing, but nothing happened. 

"Ah ah ah. No starting the party without me." The voice startled him, and he looked up at the room around him, distracted from his concern about his immediate condition. 

In between those circles of light filled space were greying areas filled by black, where the lights failed to overlap, and left only the imagination with eyes. In one such patch of darkness Vittoria was standing, watching him wake. 

"I meant to kill you while you were dead, little one," she said conversationally. Her voice echoed in the cavernous warehouse, and Richie's head twisted, trying to follow the streamers of sound to find her, as they filled it, then faded. He thought he had located her, and stared in that direction, silently defiant, into the dark. 

Her voice came again, mocking, "Aren't you even _little_ bit curious why I didn't?" 

"I expect you'll tell me sooner or later. It wouldn't be any fun if you didn't, would it?" He understood her well enough. She was a bully. The sort that found a secret and exploited just because she _could_ , not because she really wanted something. She had no interest in _him_ , not even any interest in his Quickening or his pain. She was only interested in herself. It made her unpredictable, but only in detail. If it amused, pleased - whatever she cared to call it, he might live. He might do so anyway. She might even get bored. 

She could see the thoughts flickering over his face. He was brightly lit, every angle and plane in sharp relief. Seven hundred years was more than enough to read this puppy, who could barely lift a sword, never mind understand her. She laughed softly, and the echoes took the sound, and cast it through the building, only to be buried by the sound of a train pulling out from the Gare du Nord, clattering past the industrial estate. 

"I want to know," she stepped forward into a pool of light, "I want to know where Methos is." Another step forward, and she slipped into shadows again. Richie began to feel frightened - he had misjudged her badly once already, and was wondering how much more that he thought he knew about her was in fact incorrect. He tried to stand again, and found he still couldn't move. This time he started to really worry as it finally registered with him that there was nothing binding his lower body to the chair. Something was seriously wrong. His hands and arms had movement, even if restricted. His face and torso were normal too, but he couldn't shift one inch from where he had been placed in an open backed chair. As he twisted round, trying to understand, something caught against the chairback. A little further, a little further... 

He slumped back, sickened. 

"Oh, don't worry. It _will_ heal. It may just... take some time." She smiled into the darkness, watching a little more of the bravado seep away from him, in its wake a little more fear. She saw it pulling his shoulders back, narrowing his eyes, thinning his lips. "Be brave. Yes, that's it. Like that. Good boy. You might even have that time. If you co-operate." 

"Now. Methos. You say you didn't kill him. Convince me." Suddenly she was by his elbow, a hand rocking idly on the dagger embedded in the middle of his spine. He gasped at the pain, then bit his lip till it bled to keep himself silent. She caught the flicker of light as it healed and frowned. 

"So, I will tell you what I know, and you will do the same, and then you will go, head and all. In one piece," she added as an afterthought. "A bargain?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "He was born a long time ago, probably in the Fertile Crescent of the Tigris and the Euphrates. He has been many things, but mostly a survivor. He was a murderer, an artist, a priest," she smiled, "Well, _everything_ ," she said with a conspiratorial grin. "What else would you expect from such a person? And you met him one October, some years after he had decided to become a man of peace." 

Richie's mind worked furiously. She had the wrong man, the wrong Methos. {So it might be safe to tell her. . . unless she decided to kill me for the Quickening I supposedly carry. Perhaps if I tell her what I know, maybe I can convince her to give up . . . Maybe. Maybe even convince her she's got to start over again. As long as I don't tell her about Adam, I'm not breaking my promise.} She watched as his expression changed from uncertainty to a decision. 

"I'll tell you what I know." He flinched as her hand moved again on the blade in his back. She twisted it viciously, then yanked, dragging the dagger from between vertebrae. His eyes watered as feeling slowly returned to his lower back and legs, the severed nerves reknitting themselves. The relief as he felt - _felt_ \- a sticky runnel of blood soaking the waistband of his jeans and trickling uncomfortably downwards. 

"Speak then. I am all ears." She sat before him, cross-legged. For all the word like a child waiting for a bedtime story, an unchildlike sword resting across her knees. 

"Methos--" Richie sighed, trying to work out how best to go on. "He came to Seacouver more than a year ago... I wanted to believe him. I wanted so _badly_ for him to be right, y'know - for him to truly have a way that meant I could leave the killing behind. I hate it. It's nothing I was brought up to do. I can't treat death casually..." He was lost in his own thoughts now, barely aware of the circumstances which left him in this place. 

"I laid down my sword for him. I gave it back to Mac - he gave it to me once when I'd needed it - needed him. I wanted him to have it back. I suppose... I think I hurt him. I turned my back on him and everything he wanted me to be. I guess it was partly deliberate, some kind of rebellion. I didn't want to be like him any more. I didn't want to remember how-- I didn't want to remember... I didn't want to kill any more!" He looked straight at her for the first time in his tale, and she stared back intently. Cautiously he tried lifting his legs - they were almost working again, only the agony of pins and needles was stopping him from getting up and leaving. He tried to ease them a little, without her noticing - her eyes were rapt, fixed on his face. {Perhaps she won't see,} he hoped. {Who am I kidding, she just took the damn thing out herself. She's waiting for it.} 

"So, we fought, kinda, me and Mac. And then I went back to his house. Methos' house." He paused, seeing it all again in his mind's eye. "It was beautiful, you know? Blue skies, sunshine, just that little bit of breeze - just enough to stop the day being sticky. All that green and brown and gold as the leaves began to turn. And as I got there I saw the last traces of lightning. I went into the garden - he wasn't there. And then I saw him. Culbraith." He sighed again, but his fists tightened. "He killed him. He was unarmed - Mac says that he died as he lived. That it was his _choice_. But the point is, he was betrayed. By his own student. It shouldn't have happened. Perhaps if I'd been there--" He cleared his throat. "I... I wanted to _kill_ him," he said, sharp edges on each word. A moment later his shoulders slumped, and his mouth, which had thinned in remembered rage, quirked into a half smile. "But I was going to die. Like my teacher, empty handed. And I didn't want to die. It seemed worth fighting for after all. I'm such a hypocrite." He shrugged, and glanced at his enemy. "Then Mac shows up, throws me my sword. I don't think Culbraith expected that. After, well, taking his head was easy. But - Methos - was still dead." 

"So, you do have his Quickening?" she asked, still caught in the story. "Can you remember what it was like? Being him? Is there anything of him in it? 

"I don't think so. It came to me through Culbraith, and I don't think that it can get through all that. . . Sometimes -" He fell silent. 

"Yes?" she said eagerly. 

"Sometimes do I think I get something from them. From the Quickenings - I... I suddenly start doing the weirdest stuff. Things I never cared about before." 

She leaned forward, an excited light in her eye. "And did you 'get something' from _him_?" 

"No, nothing," he said softly. He shook his head, and it was as if that cleared his mind of the memories. "No," he said more firmly. "Maybe he wasn't even Methos. How could you tell? I suspect he wasn't." He wondered how far down the truthful path he dared go, whether Adam could take her if he told her who he was. Whether he dared break a promise made to his first teacher and his teacher's friend. 

"Oh. That's a shame. Maybe it won't do any good then. But if I don't take his head, I'll never know, will I, Georg?" she whispered to herself. Richie looked at her, confused. "So, I'll have to take your head. I'm sorry. Not much, but a little bit sorry. You told such a good story," she said regretfully, almost childishly. 

He needed to stand, wanted his sword, somehow found himself on his unsteady feet. In the strangely lit place he could see no sign of his jacket, and the sword hidden inside it. {Unarmed against a lunatic, _again_ ,} he realised, and began backing away from her, tugging desperately at the bindings on his wrists. 

"Nowhere to go, little one," she called merrily, and raised her sword, rolling smoothly to her feet. He ran, stumbling over his recalcitrant feet and legs as they tried to heal from the paralysis she had inflicted. Keeping to the dark as much as he could, letting his eyes adjust, trying to spot his own sword. He fetched up hard against an unseen wall, and heard her snicker. 

"Richie, nino mio, you'll hurt yourself like that. Come here, I'll _make_ the pain go away. You won't have to kill any more. No more deaths, no more swords. No more anything. No more pain. You don't even have to choose to lay down your sword. I've taken it away, so you can just let go. Let me have him, Richie, I want him - you don't, not the way I do," she said softly, stalking nearer through the darkness. 

For a moment she was saying everything he had most wanted to hear, those dark days, a year and a half ago. He was held, unmoving, wondering... Now that he was not moving she could not tell where he was, and took it for defiance. 

"Give him to me. I _want_ him!" she repeated harshly. " _You_ don't want him," her voice gentle and low again, "You don't want any of this... Let go... Stand still... Let me..." 

"Richie!" A man's voice broke the seductive web she was weaving with her voice. 

The two of them realised at the same moment that they had barely registered the approach of another Immortal. Richie thought he recognised the voice, couldn't place it for a moment, then with pure shock - "Me-- Adam? Adam! Over here!" 

* * *

"I don't know who you're talking about!" 

"Tall. Fair, reddish hair. Carries a sword." Altea moved back a couple of steps and regarded her prisoner thoughtfully. Louise Kerly looked terrified, true, but also rather bewildered. 

"I would help if I could, but I just don't know who you're talking about." she said, meeting Altea's eyes. 

Altea sighed. As far as she could tell, the woman was telling the truth. {Perhaps another tack?} She turned away from her and stared out the barge's window. 

"What about your employer?" 

"I..." 

"Where can I find someone who _does_ know what I want to know?" She impatiently turned back to face her. 

"I c-can't... they'll k-k-kill me," she stuttered. 

"And that will be different from what I plan to do how?" Altea retorted. 

Louise swallowed. "There's a house in the Dordogne..." 

"Are you stupid or just trying to make me lose my temper? That's too far away. I need somewhere in _Paris_. Today." 

"Uhh, I think there's a warehouse, near the Gare du Nord. It's where we do drop-offs, pick up new equipment. It's where I was first taken when I came to Paris for them." 

"Who are 'they'?" Altea snapped at her. 

"Como Lakeside Inc. At least, that's the American front end. They may go by something different over here." 

Altea considered this for a moment. "When did you join them?" she asked curiously. 

"Straight out of university, about six years ago. I was a science major, electronics and all that, with a languages minor." She shrugged. "They contacted me through the department, just before I graduated, I had a few interviews, and that was that. I wouldn't normally be doing this, but we're short staffed at the moment - I guess we're running a big operation on this. I don't usually go into the field, I'm meant to be the long distance surveillance expert. I suppose I should have stuck to what I'm good at," she finished sourly. 

Altea nodded absently. "The address of the warehouse?" 

"I don't know for sure... It's on the St Denis industrial estate, near the Electrolux factory. It looks derelict - there's a big sign outside which used to say Theroux et Cie, but it's badly faded. I could show you it?" 

"No. I think I know the place you mean, and I'm quite sure I'd be happier if you stay here." Altea walked towards the door, thought a moment, then stepped back quickly. A hard blow to the back of the woman's head with the handle of the labrys, and she flopped to one side, unconscious. Altea tied her legs to the chair, and gagged her. {Secure enough. Time to leave.} She glanced at her watch, {The watch Richie bought me...} She should still make the deadline to meet Duncan. {I only hope he waits. Maybe I should leave a note here, in case he tries to get hold of me here.} She grinned suddenly as she imagined Duncan's face when he walked into his barge to find an unconscious woman bound and gagged on one of his dining chairs. 

She scribbled a short note, telling him she'd be waiting for him at the house, and left for it at a swift jog. 

* * *

Richie's cry of recognition echoed through the empty factory. 

"Go away!" Vittoria shrieked at the intruder. "Go away! Pierre! Valjean!" 

"Oh, were those their names? I'm glad someone will be able to identify them." Methos stepped casually into a ring of light, sword resting over his right shoulder. 

"He's mine! Go away!" she yelled, moving closer to him. 

"Really? I believe I have the prior claim. He broke a promise which I expected him to keep. Didn't you, Ryan." The eldest Immortal looked coldly at the young Immortal. 

"No. Adam. I told her nothing..." There was a loaded silence. 

"Oh Richard," Methos breathed, almost sadly. 

At the same moment, Vittoria said, "Told 'her'? told me... told me what? Why would _you_ care who Methos truly was, unless. 'Adam'?" She turned to look straight into Methos' eyes. "Oh _clever_." Both men could see the understanding dawning. 

"That's why you were so adamant that the Methos who was your teacher wasn't the genuine article. You already _knew_! Oh, Richie. This is a gift beyond compare... You can go now," she added casually. 

"No he can't," Methos said calmly. "If we are to fight, Vittoria Ursini, then I want to kill him first." 

"Why?" she asked, but she knew why. "He betrayed you. Yes, yes of course, you're right, he does deserve to die for that, doesn't he?" 

"Where is his sword?" Methos smiled cruelly, "I always like a _fair_ fight, don't you?" 

"Adam, what are you doing? I said nothing. _Nothing_." Richie's eyes darted from one to the other, both armed, both intent on taking his head. Somehow this had escalated beyond mere kidnapping, from the quiet of the story-telling, and a hope of escape to betrayal. He slid along the wall, his back pressed close against the corrugated iron, shirt catching on patches of rust. To his left Vittoria approached, to his right he could see Methos. Weapons raised. He tugged wildly at the ropes on his wrists, tearing skin but finally shaking free. Desperately he felt the wall behind him, anything - and there was nothing. 

There was a clatter, and his sword hit the ground by his feet. He dipped for a fraction of a second, never lowering his eyes from the others for a moment, and was straight again, hilt in hand. Vittoria paused. 

"Your kill, my lord," she said mockingly, parodying a courtly bow, offering the young Immortal to the dark haired stranger. "Let me see how the great Methos fights." 

"Thank you. Do you wish to wait for your death, or shall I come after you?" Methos replied conversationally. 

She looked at him, fearful, but only for a moment. "I'll see how you fight. Then I'll take you when you're weak from the Quickening..." 

"Oh, that won't happen. He's nothing. A baby of four. Come here, and we will see what a _real_ Quickening is like. Him? He'd barely set a match alight," he told her dismissively. 

He raised his sword to her. She waited a moment, reading the fatal look in his eyes. After a moment she backed away. Methos smiled again. 

"Come here, _boy_." Richie circled away from the wall, keeping his eyes on Methos. 

"Don't call me boy." 

"Don't you like it? Ahhh, poor baby." 

"Save your sympathy, old timer." And their swords clashed. 

Vittoria's hand went to her mouth. There was no contest. This 'Methos' - if that was who he really was, outmatched Ryan. Outmatched him so effortlessly that she began to think she could not in fact carry through her plan. She could see them still speaking, exchanging insults, but where Methos was barely breaking a sweat, Ryan was already breathing heavily, stumbling back. {Partly his legs not healed yet I suppose,} she thought absently, then frowned as a particularly complicated movement flurried between the two men, leaving Ryan rolling desperately across the floor, scrambling to get to his feet before the final strike of that plain, battered looking sword came down. {I'll die if I face him.} 

Slowly she began to back away from the two immortals engrossed in their fight. She flinched as she heard Richie cry out. She glanced back and saw the boy on his knees before her legend. She swallowed, and slipped through the door. 

There was a howl and a crash behind her, and she began to run. 

* * *

The car screeched to a halt but even over the sound of the brakes they could hear the chime of sword on sword. Altea launched herself from the car, and Duncan followed, scant feet behind. They ran through the estate, desperately trying to find the fight. They sensed an Immortal at the same time. As they swerved around the side of a building they could see another, up the far end, the sound of metal on metal clear through the closed doors. 

Duncan grabbed her arm. 

"Let me go," she hissed coldly, murder in her eyes. The labrys appeared in her hand again, and rang against the katana. 

"You _can't_ interfere." Duncan said urgently, bearing down against the axe as hard as he could. His grip on her arm softened. "Altea, I'm _sorry_ , you can't imagine..." 

She looked at him, saw the braced expression, awaiting pain, too close to her own emotions to watch for long. 

"You'll only distract him. If he wins, he wins. If not..." She tried to jerk her arm away again. "If not," he repeated, his fingers holding onto her forearm," It's better...not to see." 

She looked at him with understanding - he had stood here before. 

A distant cry. Lights flickered, white smoke drifted under the closed doors. The lightning never even made it out of the building, not a powerful Quickening then. Perhaps one only five years old, certainly not one of a seven hundred year old Immortal. Gouts of flames appeared, seizing merrily on the walls and roofs of neighbouring buildings. Duncan heard Altea whisper, "No!" 

One by one the windows fractured, debris flying outwards. Out of the sudden quiet a small dark figure emerged at a run. 

It was dark, but even in the twilight they could see all they needed to know. With a roar Duncan charged at the distant Immortal, brandishing sword, but Altea was ahead of him, lightly covering the ground, utterly silent, labrys raised in both hands. 

Duncan ran after the two women. He lost them for a while as Vittoria fled before Altea's implacable fury. Finally, some minutes later, he caught up, to hear Vittoria say, begging, "It wasn't my fault! I didn't do it! Please! Let me go! It wasn't me! _He_ came. I - I ran. I didn't want to face him, he's too good, and he took it, he took Ryan's head, I think." She raised her rapier to ward off another crushing blow, then changed her mind and skipped backwards, out of the way. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she gasped, wildly parrying Altea's sweeping two-handed blows. Vittoria could still move fast enough to dodge them, but the moment the axe touched her she knew there would be nothing she could do. She drew blood, pinking her opponent's shoulder, but it was as if it never happened. With each strike, each frantic dive for safety, Vittoria lost a little ground, and a little strength. Altea simply pressed forwards, nothing resembling thought in her icy eyes. 

"Who are you? Please! Let me go! It wasn't me! I didn't do it. . ." and moaned as her wrist was snapped, bent backwards beyond endurance as labrys and rapier met. The sword fell, her hand dangling uselessly. She went to grab it left handed, a split second decision, wrong choice, {No, _go_!} her mind screamed at her sluggish feet. Altea was already there. 

With one blow she severed Vittoria's sword arm at the shoulder. She screamed in agony even as she turned to flee. Altea's next blow dug deep into her left side as she turned, the blade catching in the Vittoria's spine. With a wrench she yanked the axe out, letting the dark haired Italian fall to her knees. Vittoria clutched at the weeping stump of her right arm, spitting blood as it filled her lungs. 

{Not like this, not when I was so close. . .} "Methos. . ." a howl cut short. 

With a wordless scream Altea lifted the labrys high above her head, and slammed it downwards. 

She stood through the Quickening, silent tears streaming down her face, until she could not bear it any more, and tumbled to her knees. When the lightning ceased Duncan dropped to his knees beside her, not quite touching her. 

"Altea?" he said softly. 

"Um?" 

"I think we should go." 

"But..." 

"I don't think... I suspect..." He paused. Something didn't feel right. "Wait here. I need to check something." He jogged into the burning factory. On the ground around the edges were stones, one or two had glass all around them. Then he caught sight of something else. He smiled grimly as he picked it up. "When I get my hands on those two..." he muttered. 

He took it outside, flipping it from hand to hand, and held it out wordlessly to Altea. 

She turned it in her hand and looked up at him in puzzlement. 

"It's a smoke bomb," he said. 

She looked at it again, then at him and took a deep breath. "I think," she said unsteadily, "I need to sit down somewhere and have a drink. After that, I'm going to find him and kill him." 

They looked at each other for a moment, and began laughing, faintly hysterically. 

* * *

Tag: 

"Who the hell are you?" Richie demanded. 

"Mmmph! MMMMph mm!" Louise Kerly tried to answer. 

"Let her go, Rich," Methos said, and collapsed onto Duncan's sofa, still, well, there's no other word for it, still giggling. 

Richie yanked at the gag, pulled the rope from her wrists and asked her, "Do you want to explain what happened here?" 

"A mad woman! With an axe!" 

"Altea." Methos suggested helpfully. 

"She wanted to know where some Ricky person was. And then she rushed off." 

"Seems reasonable," Methos dragged himself to his feet long enough to get a beer from Duncan's fridge, and now wandered back. "Let her go. The important people are ... gone." 

Richie shrugged, "It's your head." He unbound her wrists and ankles, and watched in silence as she went, thinking of something else now. "Altea was waving her axe around again." 

"Labrys," Methos corrected him, taking another swig of Duncan's beer. 

"Whatever. Do you suppose she's pissy at me? I didn't _mean_ to get kidnapped." 

"Don't explain it to me, explain it to _her_." 

"Why me? It's your fault too. If you didn't exist--" 

"You'd be dead right now." 

"No, I wouldn't have gotten into this mess, because she'd never have come after my head looking for you." 

"Yes, but if _I_ hadn't been around when--" They were interrupted in the raking-up-ancient-grudges game by the sense of another Immortal close by. 

"Altea!" Richie ran for the door. 

"Duncan," Methos said morosely, and made a quick dive for the fridge, grabbing another two beers, and hiding them down the side of the chair he was sprawled in. 

A couple of seconds later his worst fears were realised. 

"Richie!" Duncan's voice. 

"Richie!" Altea's voice. 

{Group hug,} thought Methos sourly. 

Richie came back in, Altea's arm tightly around his waist, Duncan's eyes on him, full of relief, and something else. Just what he discovered when Duncan flipped a small canister onto the table. 

"What is this?" he asked mildly. 

Richie and Methos looked at each other. 

"It was your idea." 

"It was your neck." 

"It was your--" 

"I just asked a simple question. What is it?" 

"A mark 4 gas canister." Methos tried the factual approach. 

"Ah. _Why_ was it in the warehouse where we thought we saw a Quickening take place?" 

"You _saw_ it?" Richie almost looked contrite, "Look, Mac, Al, we never meant for you to see it. It was just the quickest way out of a bad situation. Methos came in, pretended to want my head, and scared her off. Though you could have told me a little more of the plan than whispering 'Lose! Lose dammit!' at me. I thought you were just trying to fake me out," he added accusingly to Methos. Richie caught Altea's glare and spread his hands in surrender, "It was just meant to get rid of her. I never meant for you to think either of us got ourselves killed. We just snuck off, till I got the poison and the injuries all healed, then I was gonna go back and get her. Honestly." 

"Al?" Altea said in puzzlement midway through the spiel, low enough that Richie didn't hear it. 

"So what exactly happened?" Duncan asked resignedly. 

"I brought some odds and ends with me when I came looking for Ursini. Enough to create a diversion if I needed one." Methos said, burrowing deeper into the easy chair. 

Duncan simply glowered at them. 

Richie grinned back. "But it was great, Mac. He was standing there flipping the lights on and off, then he shorted them across the girders in the roof somehow. And the smoke bomb went off, and I was throwing stones through the windows." He laughed, "It was fantastic. A faked Quickening! Never seen anything like it." He perched on the arm of the chair Methos was seated in, and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "And it was all his idea. Now, we just have to find her and get rid of her. Sorry, I know she's your friend and all, but jeeze Mac, why are all your friends psycho?" 

"No, you don't." Duncan glared at the two miscreants. "Altea's saved you the trouble. She thought - we both thought she'd killed you." 

"Come on Mac, you know I'm harder to kill than that. I'm truly sorry you got misled like that but I wasn't to know you were running around after me. I'm a big boy now. I can look after myself." 

Duncan let that pass and turned to Methos. 

"Al?" Altea repeated a little more loudly. Methos caught it this time, and started to grin viciously. 

"And I thought you were halfway to the tropics," Duncan remarked to Methos with a faint smirk. 

"I won't say I didn't think of it," the oldest man alive admitted cheerfully. "But we all had a good time, didn't we?" 

"A _good_ time?" Duncan asked, eyebrows raised. 

"We're all alive," Methos shrugged, as if that was all that really mattered. 

While they argued, Richie went over to where Altea was sitting on the sofa. He brushed at the tear streaks on her tired face, and said "I'm really sorry you had to go through all of that. Thank you. I never imagined..." He wrapped both arms round her and kissed her. After a moment she leaned back and smiled at him. 

"Well, I'd rather have you around than not, so I suppose it was worth it." she said, thinking {Al?}, and a half frown creasing her forehead. 

"Of course it was, Allie," Richie replied, not meaning to sound smug, but definitely achieving it anyway. 

She looked at him, a thoughtful expression on her face, and said, "That reminds me. Who is this 'Al'?" 

"Ummm . . ." 

Methos grinned at the suddenly wary look on Richie's face. He dug out one of the spare bottles of beer from the side of his chair and passed it to Duncan. Duncan saluted him with it, took a swig, then they both settled back to enjoy the show. 

Finis 

* * *


End file.
